Wolfsbane
by happy accident
Summary: Keller and Galen unwittingly uncover the last Wild Power. The problem? Equal distrust of both Circle Daybreak and the Council sends the girl running into the arms of a third party...her fiercely protective werewolf soulmate.
1. So what's the bad news?

"Werewolves are much better. You'll understand when I show you. The moon looks so beautiful when you're a wolf."

―Jeremy, _Daughters of Darkness_

**Woman**, n. An animal usually living in the vicinity of Man, and having a rudimentary susceptibility to domestication…The species is the most widely distributed of all beasts of prey, infesting all habitable parts of the globe, from Greenland's spicy mountains to India's moral strand. The popular name (wolfman) is incorrect, for the creature is of the cat kind. The woman is lithe and graceful in its movement, especially the American variety _(felis pugnans)_, is omnivorous and can be taught not to talk.

―Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

**Wolfsbane  
****by happy accident**

**chapter one**

Keller felt distinctly like being cross with someone. Unfortunately for her, the only person within reasonable distance was her soulmate, and as satisfactory as it would feel to unleash her temper, she would sincerely regret making Galen her target later. Keller settled for pressing two fingers against her temple where a ferocious headache was brewing.

This was not going according to plan. Not at all.

Wild Powers were not allowed to stay in one place any length of time, not even the most secure of Circle Daybreak's safe houses. There was no place in this world that was safe enough. She and Galen should have left with the rest of the caravan that morning carrying Iliana, her family, and Nissa and Winnie south to a new location in Baton Rouge. Instead, a misunderstanding with the car rental company had shorted them one vehicle, and Galen had volunteered the two of them to stay behind to wait for the promised replacement.

Maybe they had pushed the car too hard trying to make up the distance and the time. Maybe. But the car had broken down. The Goddess-forsaken car had broken down and left them stranded in Nowheresville, Louisiana.

For everything Keller knew about disarming attackers and pressure points, she knew that much less about cars. She regarded the ominously smoking engine with something that felt alarmingly like distress.

Galen snapped his cell phone closed with an audible click, or at least it was audible to a panther that masqueraded as a human teenager part of the time. The son of the First House of shapeshifters leaned one hip casually against the door of the car. He looked remarkably like a dragon-slaying knight on casual Friday: boyishly skewed golden hair, dark sunglasses, tired old T-shirt, and well-worn jeans.

Funny thing was, he _had_ fought a dragon.

"Well," he said with as much brightness as he could muster―which was quite a bit in comparison to Keller's stormy mood. "There's bad news, and there's bad news."

Keller lifted her eyes in response, but she couldn't find anything to say that wouldn't be considered a snarl.

Galen shrugged his shoulders a bit in response to those unspoken words that only he could sense under her exterior. "Apparently, there's a bit of a tie-up in Baton Rouge. Alex got a little colicky on the drive there, and the whole facility has gone into lockdown."

Keller winced unconsciously. Unfortunately, she knew just what 'lockdown' meant. Nothing involving the Witch Child and her family was ever taken at face value. Any illness among them would be considered an immediate threat from members of the Night World. There would be double the usual amount of guards, no one moving in or out of the house, and a whole coven of witches casting counter-curse spells and burning nasty-smelling herbs throughout the entire day―and the majority of both would be posted around the witch-baby.

_Poor kid. _

"Even if they could send someone for us," Galen continued, noting the expression on his companion's face, "we wouldn't be able to set foot in the house for the next forty-eight hours, at the very least. Beyond that, the nearest Daybreak base to here is in Nashville. And they wouldn't get clearance to dispatch a car for us anytime before tomorrow afternoon."

Sometimes the bureaucracy which they worked under astounded her. Sometimes things just _needed to get done_. The world turned on split-second decisions, not official orders signed in triplicate.

Keller wiped a bead of sweat away from her eyes. It was unbelievably humid. "So, what's the bad news?"

Galen rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, glancing upwards at the rapidly descending sun. "There's a small group of witches in the area, about half a dozen, that have offered to take is in for the night. The town's within walking distance…a _long_ walking distance."

"Witches," Keller repeated blankly. "Back-woods witches. Well, it could be worse, couldn't it?"

A faint smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. "That's the spirit."

Keller shook the feeling of stiffness out of her shoulders and moved around the car to pop the trunk. "Grab what you think you can carry," she fell naturally into order-giving mode. "We'll have to get started soon, if we're going to make it before it gets too dark." She slung a bag over her left shoulder and carefully selected another for her right one, conscientiously assessing the distribution of weight to ensure it was even and wouldn't restrict her range of movement too much. Still evaluating her considerable strength against the distance ahead, she slid a glance in her soulmate's direction to see how he was progressing. She laid a hand gently on Galen's arm, preventing him from hefting another bag. "Don't try to take on too much. You can leave that."

"Nah," he reassured her. "I got it."

Keller shook her head slightly, but kept her lips wisely closed. She wasn't one to argue with a teenage boy's pride. The sore muscles he would have tomorrow morning would be entirely his responsibility.

Keller swiveled to gauge the long asphalt road that lay before them, overgrown on either side with ancient trees, and an unexpected sigh welled up in her being. She didn't give voice to that sigh, of course, but Galen's arm curled around her waist nonetheless. A few months ago, she never would have allowed anyone that privilege, wouldn't have allowed anyone to offer her so much comfort, nor would she have allowed herself to accept that support from anyone.

Love was a weakness, a letting go. But things changed. Now, love was her strength as well, steeling her for the onerous journey ahead.

"Think of it this way," his voice was dangerously near her ear. "At least you're wearing sensible shoes."

She looked at her sturdy, customary boots. Looked at his sandals, already gathering a covering of dust and mud. She cracked a small smile. His hand slid naturally into hers as they set themselves in the direction of town.

Perhaps not _everything_ was wrong in her world.

°°°

It is, in most people's experience, a rather uncommon occurrence for black-garbed soldiers to launch themselves through the windows of out-of-the-way family restaurants. It wasn't even a true restaurant, really, more of a mom-and-pop variety of diner that had stayed in business for years because people came from miles around just to get a slice of homemade pie. (The best in the state, the locals said, tastes like, like…_magic_.) But no one had ever hurled themselves through the windows before, not even for the last piece of peach pie.

However, contrary to outward appearances, this was no ordinary family-run eatery. It was, in fact, the property of a long line of witches who, being settled in such a remote area of the Louisiana, had made it their strict policy to disassociate themselves from Night World politics long before Circle Daybreak came into being.

Nor were the patrons that evening particularly normal. Scattered amongst the expected human customers were otherworldly regulars, the small coven of witches that inhabited the area, a trio of sympathetic vampires, not to mention the witches' surprise―but no doubt greatly honored―guests, Galen Drache and his soulmate Keller, companions to the fabled Witch Child herself.

At that moment, the shapeshifters' heir was nervously broaching an undeniably sensitive subject with the love of his life, leaning slightly on their dinner table for support. Galen, being what he was in the deepest part of his nature, would have gone to great lengths to avoid any sort of conflict, but his new second, feline skin was teaching him that sometimes you had to fight for what you love, to protect it, to preserve it. He had only two great loves, his shapeshifter people and his soulmate, and inevitably they were going to have to meet in the middle.

"I―" Her eyes focused on him levelly, stony gray. He cleared his throat, tried a second approach. "My parents called yesterday."

There really shouldn't have been any threat in that admission. The sovereign rulers of the shapeshifters were exceedingly lenient and mild as parents went; merely a handful of weeks before they had assumed their son would be handfasted to the Witch Child, but they had effortlessly adapted themselves to the unexpected change in arrangements, welcoming his new girlfriend with open arms, regardless of her dubious pedigree and upbringing.

But there _was_ a threat. The muscles in Keller's shoulders tightened, ever so slightly.

"They expect me to visit them at the summer solstice. And you. I―we would love to have you with us, to make it a real family affair."

"And I," Keller took the time to choose her words extremely carefully, but the pause between each gave an impression of harshness far beyond what she intended, "would in return for the invitation be expected to rub shoulders with some influential 'shifters, wouldn't I?"

"I never said it would be a private event," he feebly protected his position on increasingly unstable ground.

"We've already discussed this," she spoke up stiffly.

"Yes, we have." He ducked his head in acknowledgement. "And you have nothing to worry about, Keller. It's not so terrible as you're imagining. You get dressed up, have dinner, meet and greet. You only need to be yourself―if you could only see yourself like other people do…You're beautiful, graceful, brave. You're _honest_. You have no idea how refreshing that is. You're a…"―he dug for a word and came up with absolutely the wrong one―"a novelty in my world."

"'A novelty?'" she growled, eyes flashing dangerously. "Goddess, Galen, that's―"

A door opened behind the couple, effectively suspending the conversation. Instinctively the girl tensed while the boy, less experienced, looked over in mild interest. The breeze wafted in the door as well, washing them with the new arrival's scent. Female. A witch, though a weak one, barely discernable. Judging from the reaction in the room she was expected by the coven at their hastily called meeting on the subject of their esteemed guests. Keller relaxed. Galen opened his mouth to soothe over the problem he had just created.

Glass shattered.

The world stopped for a breathless moment before a swarm of lithe Night World soldiers flooded through what had formerly been the restaurant's large windows facing the tiny Main Street. It was a well-calculated tactic―better for them to enter all at once through an improvised opening than one or two at a time through the door.

The screaming started. Tables toppled. Somewhere, witch fire flared.

Crouched behind a fallen table, Galen sighed and glanced at the dark-haired teenager beside him. "So much for a quiet evening," he mumbled.

Keller's mouth had narrowed to a grim line. She was thinking of absurdly dainty dresses and courtly manners, all trying to hem her in, change who she was. She was just a grunt; she didn't want to be anyone's princess. Dashing prince or no, she didn't intend on living a fairytale life, becoming soft, pampered, complacent…_Domesticated_. Resentment rose, bitter, in her throat, and she was slipping into her second form before a coherent thought entered her mind.

Galen placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her, too late. Failing that, he followed her into the change.

A soot-black panther cleared the table in one effortless leap, hitting the ground running, charging the pack of attackers. But the Night Worlders showed a limited amount of interest in the large cat in their midst, streaming around her like a river around a stone. Frustrated, Keller growled deep in her throat and lashed out at the nearest opponent, one swipe of her paw severing vital muscles and tendons in his calf.

One foe felled, Keller wheeled around to analyze the situation, and she allowed herself one brief moment of intense longing for Winnie and Nissa at her back. Witch fire was fountaining from several pairs of hands around the room. The vampires had engaged themselves in hand-to-hand combat. The golden leopard was impossible to pass over, in front of her and to the left. She felt an unforeseen twinge in her chest. Galen the pacifist had his claws buried in a blonde vampire. She couldn't help feeling responsible.

_Later_, she assured herself, _there is always time later. And if there isn't…_

The Night Worlders were still pushing forward, overwhelming the opposition, and their goal was becoming increasingly obvious: the isolated figure of the newcomer, the last person to enter the diner. A slim witch, middling height, no older than Keller, with hair of an indeterminable shade between blonde and brown cropped to her chin and striking eyes, one beryl blue and the other coffee-colored, like looking at two different people at the same time. Her face was frozen into an expression of utter terror.

Keller moved faster than thought, impelled by instinct. With everyone else otherwise occupied, she moved to place herself between the unsuspecting girl and the oncoming wave. It was, Keller rationalized, in Circle Daybreak's best interest to protect anything that the Council deemed worth having. She was not in the happen of risking her life for just any witch.

Regrettably, in the chaos that had suddenly erupted in the room, it had become difficult to tell enemy from ally, especially if one had only just arrived and was unfamiliar with Raksha Keller. The witch saw only the supple, lethal form of a very large cat weaving towards her at an alarming rate, trailing a sticky line of fresh blood. The girl cupped her hands and mouthed an incantation, but her mind was blank, her concentration destroyed. When the pale ember of light between her fingers flickered and died, she looked, panicked, into the face of the hurtling wall of feline muscle, locking her gaze with those eyes, steely gray and deadly, for an instant before turning with a cry to escape through the door she had only just come through.

Cursing, Keller shifted back to her half-way form, regaining her two legs and, more importantly, her opposable thumbs. She flung the door open and stumbled a few steps into the street after the rapidly fleeing figure. "Wait!" she coughed, once again reclaiming the power of speech.

The witch glanced over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of the pursuing almost-woman, and only compelled herself to move faster.

Keller prepared herself for another chase, ready to leap after the girl in full panther form, but a noise behind her lamentably led to her delay. The Night World soldiers had reached the door, and they were just as eager to track the girl as Keller was. More luckily, Keller's current position gave her a great deal of leverage over those trying to reach the outside. They had to cross through the door one-by-one, making it absurdly easy to pick them off and guard her post.

In a pause between attackers Keller cast a glance in the direction the girl had gone just in time to see her recede into the reaching arms of the forest that dominated the nearly all of the spaces between buildings in the small town. Better, Keller thought, that she was lost to Circle Daybreak than caught by the Night World here and now. Who knows, she might even come back when the danger's past.

Another assailant advanced on the door, and Keller pivoted smoothly to meet him, her mind gliding easily from the mysterious witch into the rhythmic motion of attack and counterattack.

°°°

Aurora ran…


	2. Are you okay?

**Calamity**, n. A more commonly plain and unmistakable reminder that the affairs of this life are not of our own ordering. Calamities come in two kinds: misfortune to ourselves and good fortune to others.

―Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

**chapter two**

Aurora ran, or came as near to the gait as the entangling fingers of the forest would allow. She crashed numbly through the underbrush, barely feeling the lash of branches on every inch of exposed skin, the twigs snapping and snarling in her hair. Her heartbeat thundered violently in her ears, and her breath seared her lungs, exploding from her lips at irregular intervals in a rasping keen. Her muscles shrieked their protest against the unaccustomed exercise even as she stretched them further past their limit. She didn't care. She knew unquestionably that if she paused for even the briefest of moments, she wouldn't be able to coerce herself into motion again.

Her frenzied flight produced the only sound in the nocturnal woodland. There were no pursuers trailing her anymore, but that mattered little. She was not so naïve to the world outside her small town that she hadn't recognized the ruthless nature of the organization which she had just run up against, or that she didn't know that there were other types of tracking beyond the corporeal. Fear dogged her footsteps.

In her mind, she saw again and again a silky black panther with death in its eyes.

An animal startled ahead of her. She jerked her glance up just in time to catch a glimpse of the tip of a tail and a shivering bush, and just in time to miss seeing the protruding root under her feet. She tripped, fumbling for balance, and sprawled face first, her ankle twisting at an unnatural angle as she came down hard. For a long moment, she lay in the sudden hush of the forest, the breath in her lungs caught between her spine and the steady pressure of the earth under her chest. Gradually, with a twinge of apprehension, she tested the range of movement of her foot, and winced in pain and dread. She wouldn't be moving far from this spot tonight.

Perhaps, if she had been more of a witch, if she had a talisman to concentrate her energies, she could have at least brought the swelling down. Being the half-blood offspring of a weak lineage, she had a severely limited range of abilities, and healing was positively beyond her.

She drew in a lungful of air to heave a demoralized sigh, but never released it. Someone was watching her. She would never claim to have premonitions, but she certainly did get _feelings_, and the sensation was inescapable, an unsettling prickling on the back of her neck. She pushed herself up on her elbows, preparing herself mentally for the agony of shifting her ankle, and looked up into the eyes of a rather sizeable dog no more than an arm's length from where she was crumpled.

Not a dog, she corrected herself immediately as it shifted in the dark shadows of the wood. A wolf. A magnificent beast. Large, larger than any wolf should be, tall at the shoulder, and easily over one hundred and twenty pounds. It was a mass of solid muscles and thick, velvety black pelt, the hair tipped with silver like it had been glazed with moonlight. And the eyes, the eyes that were staring into hers were an unnervingly pale blue, almost translucent, like looking into a pool of water.

She drew back instinctively, straining to her knees, and then she checked herself, concerned that she might have moved too quickly and aggravated the wolf as well as her ankle. Scrutinizing the wolf just as intently as it was her, she weighed her scant options. She couldn't have outrun such a fine-tuned creature in her best physical condition, and with no other alternative open to her, she did the unthinkable. Witches were more closely aligned with the natural world than their human brethren, and that included all manner of animals, even the kind that might just lunge for your throat. Projecting soothing thoughts, she reached out a quivering hand, palm upwards, to the wolf, slowly inching towards its muzzle. She was agonizingly conscious of the sharp canine poking out from between its powerful jaws.

"Hey there, puppy." Her voice was absolutely empty of the panic bubbling up inside of her. She felt hysterically ridiculous, calling a full grown wolf a 'puppy'. "Good dog." She inserted an additional, unspoken appeal to Artemis, the maiden form of the ancient three-fold goddess, who had been born in Lycia, the land of the wolves: _Great and venerable Lady of the Wild Things, Mistress of the Moon, please…don't let him eat me._

The wolf regarded her with unflinching calm, head tilted slightly to the side as if considering her seriously. Its ears had swiveled forward in interest. Ultimately, it lost patience with her slow, jerky motions, and it closed the distance between them by bumping its nose against her palm.

_Something_ happened. It was hard to place any words to exactly what occurred, though. She felt the cool, almost slimy touch of the animal's nose, and at the same time she felt implausibly warm, like her entire body had been set on fire.

For the second time that night, she fell over, this time backwards. The wolf trotted forward to bring its face within a foot of her own, an unbelievable blend of curiosity and euphoric happiness in those odd eyes. The wolf's mouth dropped open, its tongue lolling out, exceptionally long and pink. It wagged its glorious tail once, twice, and whined, a piercing sound. It danced a few jittery steps forward and few more backward. It seemed to be trying to communicate some message to her, and she hoped desperately that it was something along the lines of _stay right where you are_ because she didn't intend on moving. Her ankle was throbbing ferociously.

The wolf backed delicately away from her, then as it reached a more open space between the crowding trees, twisted its body around smoothly and loped into the forest to her right, zigzagging out of sight between the massive trunks.

She was left alone with a peculiar ache not only in her ankle but her chest as well, and a burning confusion. Some of her ancestors were reported to have had an exceptionally close union with animals, back when the line had been a strong one undiluted by years spent in a backwoods area of Louisiana and intermarrying with humans. She didn't think that account was enough to justify the overwhelming impression of _connection_ she had felt with the wolf, but it was as good a start as any.

She allowed her eyes to slip closed, just for an instant. Adrenaline was abandoning her, draining the energy out of each of her muscles and leaving devastation behind. She would have loved nothing more at that moment than just to lie where she had fallen, tangled in the underbrush, and sleep for the rest of time. She imagined herself like some enchanted princess from a fairytale, or even Rip van Winkle, still slumbering here hundreds of years in the future, untouched by humanity. But her encounter with the wolf had made her uneasy, and she knew that she would eventually have to attempt to stand, establish how much weight her ankle could hold. It was imperative that she find shelter for the time being because there was no telling how many other lethal creatures were lurking in the woods.

She had an unbidden memory of a cat with a pelt formed out of the darkness of the night slinking towards her, leaving a streak of blood in its wake.

Her eyes snapped open. She was gazing rather unexpectedly into a compassionate pair of wintry blue irises, but these obviously belonged to a teenage boy, not anything of the canine persuasion. Those eyes were framed by hopelessly dark, full lashes and topped by a disorderly thatch of dark hair, the wild tufts of which blended into the shadows around him. His skin was impossibly pale and delicate next to the rest of his features, a ghost in the night-veiled forest. Hovering over her, he was of impressive stature, some six feet and several inches, a powerful frame with wide-set shoulders, and lean with it. She jumped at the sight of him, grinding her back into a branch lodged beneath her, and her heart picked up its old, frantic tempo. She didn't even have the presence of mind to scream.

"Easy there." He had the kind of voice that soothed wild beasts. Soft and low and gentle, rumbling expectantly in his throat. He became marginally less intimidating as he bent his knees and eased himself down to crouch at her level. "Are you okay?"

"Oh―I―" The words cracked in her throat. She'd been frightened out of her wits one too many times tonight, and she thought they might be permanently scrambled.

He didn't seem to notice that she couldn't form a coherent sentence. "Silly question. Most folks don't collapse in the middle of these woods without some reason." He paused, cocked one eyebrow, reconsidering his first evaluation of her sanity. "I suppose you have a reason?"

"Ankle," she murmured weakly.

"Hmm." He glanced at the junction of her jeans and her old, stained tennis shoes. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take a look at the damage, miss."

She nodded her head mutely. It seemed absurd, this soft-spoken boy with impeccable manners coming to her rescue in the middle of a forest.

He respectfully rolled back the cuff of her pants with her permission, and promptly whistled. Shaking his head, he laid his fingers lightly on the swollen flesh, his touch cool against the hot skin. His hands were efficient and clinical in their exploration of her injury, and she couldn't help concentrating on the raspy―but not at all unpleasant―feel of calluses on his fingertips. Her whole body was quavering, and she couldn't determine why.

"Quite a job you did on yourself, there," he observed, catching her eyes. "My home isn't far from here; I can take you there and get this packed with ice before it gets too much worse. Now," he said matter-of-factly in the same tone one uses to speak to skittish colts, "I'm going to pick you up and carry you, but since I think that's a little forward, just having met you and all, I'm going to introduce myself first." He extended one hand to her, and her gaze lighted on the beauty of those long, delicate fingers that had so recently been examining her ankle in such a detached manner. "Dillion O'Connell, at your service, miss."

_O'Connell_, her mind said, and, _Werewolf_.The words settled with a momentous thud in her stomach. _Of course_. There would be no other teenage boys living in these woods other than those that belonged to the O'Connell clan.

She should have recognized him, she berated herself in hindsight. If you titled your head just so, you could see his father in the squareness of his jaw, the way the tip of his nose was shaped. She had known Liam O'Connell all her life, if only from a distance; the middle-aged werewolf patriarch came to town once a week to purchase miscellaneous supplies at the local general store. Everyone in her family knew there were werewolves in these woods; Dillion's ancestors had inhabited this area just as long as hers, but there was an unspoken truce between the two groups. The two families never mixed, never spoke, never recognized the other's existence, but neither did they descend into feud over the territory. And while the witches lived their lives in the public forum of the town, the werewolves sunk into secrecy among the trees, their names and numbers unknown even to their fellow otherworldly creatures. Liam was the public face of the pack, the alpha male, and this would undoubtedly be his son.

She was suddenly, excruciatingly aware she had paused a beat too long in her response. "Aurora―Rory―Dustin," she answered mechanically. She saw his own prolonged blink of recognition, and satisfied that they had properly identified each other, she accepted the proffered hand. Her world narrowed to the awareness of his skin pressed next to hers. There was an agreeable buzzing around her, as if every molecule in her body had abruptly jolted into motion. They held on a few moments longer than was proper for a handshake.

Dillion was the one to pull away, reflexively shaking out his hand as he settled back on his heels, like he had just gotten a mild shock of static electricity. And then he laughed, a different sort of rumbling, spilling out of some deep region of his chest. "Well, I was going to ask what you were doing traipsing through the forest at this hour of the night, but that seems a little more obvious now, witchling. Most likely you were casting some nasty spell I want nothing to do with."

His words were encouragingly light and teasing, but the Dustin family's shyest offspring was suitably mortified. She said the first thing that came to mind. "I―I'm sorry about the 'puppy' thing. I wasn't really thinking."

"Forgiven." Dillion had turned his attention to forming a solid base with his feet and sliding his hands into the appropriate spots underneath her body. "You only wounded my pride, that's all." He flashed a blindingly blue glance her way, accompanied by a toothy smile to assure her he wasn't remotely serious.

And in the next moment she was floating. For an indeterminable span of time, she couldn't distinguish whether or not it was simply his smile that had caused this case of vertigo, but she gradually became aware of the scratchy sensation of his shirt pressed against her cheek. She had been swept up into his arms Hollywood movie-style, and the unparalleled nearness of him was having strange effects on her grip on reality.

He had cast her under the scrutiny of those extraordinary eyes again; they were the eyes of the wolf, liquid blue, mystified, awed, but at the same time deliriously happy. There was an unconscious, lopsided grin hanging on his lips, revealing one lone dimple, and Rory could discern the quick, uneven pace of his breathing all along her body, wherever his chest brushed against her. "Hello," he said breathlessly, and it was completely appropriate in the moment; it was the greeting of one soul upon the recognition of another.

Her own answer started in her toes and took a long time to travel to her mouth. While it was journeying upwards, she had a considerable amount of time to sort through the chaos of her emotions. She was happy, of course, ecstatic, exultant, and any number of words that were wholly inadequate in the moment. But she couldn't experience that kind of bliss without the knowledge of absolute sorrow as well, sorrow at the ancient family rivalry that had kept them at a distance for so long, sorrow at the capricious nature of fate, sorrow that they had to meet under such unfavorable circumstances. And fear, too―no, not so much fear as trepidation, a hesitation on the threshold of something overwhelming, life-altering. When the word finally located her vocal chords, all of her internal thoughts were wholly communicated to him in a single, shy syllable, "Hey."

She got the distinct impression that they could have remained like that forever, his arms holding her up, their faces so close their breath mingled. It would have been so easy to let the rest slip away, to believe that nothing existed outside of this little bubble of paradise they had created in the middle of a forest in the dead of the night…_But_. The denial resonated. But she had to remember something, something important, something that should be distressing her. The nagging feeling was disintegrating the floating in her stomach, grounding her firmly back on the Earth. If only she could have put a name to her concern…

"Your ankle," Dillion whispered as if afraid to disturb something incredibly fragile, and it was obvious his thoughts hadn't been far from hers. She nodded her head, her chin moving in an arc just below his collarbone, but the nagging sensation didn't disappear. "I need to get you some ice for that." He hesitated, taking a long, appreciative look at the injured witchling supported against his chest, and he wondered how this night's hunt had gone so terribly awry for him to returning home with a prize like this. He mused aloud, "Casey's never going to believe this."

Rory couldn't scrape up the nerve to ask just who Casey was.

°°°

The Council's operatives went into retreat not long after the girl had escaped, obviously abandoning their mission when their target fled. Keller pursued them as far as she dared, but there was only so much a single shapeshifter in an unfamiliar environment could hope to do, and she was not reckless enough to go charging into a wood full of unseen Night World soldiers on her own. Returning to the diner, she cautiously skirted the broken shards of glass in the street, and entered through the side door. Heads shot up at her arrival, but she was evidently not what they were expecting, and their gazes quickly turned away. Everywhere there were people moving, clearing away glass and tumbled silverware, righting tables, tending to wounds, giving and receiving comfort. In one corner she noted a dark-eyed vampire reassuringly stroking the hand of a human woman, and by the blank look in her saucer-size eyes, the lamia was presently erasing her short-term memory.

But none of that mattered. The center of her universe was currently deep in conversation with one of the witches, but when Galen heard her entrance he halted in mid-sentence, turning his green-gold eyes on her with an eager intensity. There was blood on his shirt; she knew instinctively that it wasn't his, but that did little to ease the pressure in her chest. Her vision narrowed to the distance between them and her only thought was of how to cross it.

One part of her nature, the one that had been hers the longest, was impassive, unruffled, and all too ready to turn to the business of sorting through this recent, mysterious development. The new, ridiculously sentimental side of herself wanted to crash headlong into the boy halfway across the room and find some words to express just how sorry she was, so sorry, even though he wouldn't want her to be, that he had come into this dangerous world for her sake. Keller herself was suspended somewhat awkwardly between the two extremes, and she was exceedingly conscious of how she walked the space separating them, how she discreetly slipped her fingers through his, how she said simply, almost without inflection, "You're okay."

His brow wrinkled, and he said, "Of course I am," as if the notion of any sort of threat to his person had never even occurred to him.

She shook out her long, dark hair. "I don't think you get it, Galen. If they had known who you were, if the Council had any clue they were dealing with the son of the First House―you _wouldn't_ be okay. They would have done a lot worse than just swat at you."

"Then who?" His hand reflexively tightened around hers with concern. "Why were they here at all?"

"The girl. The one that entered the diner at the last second…But it doesn't make any sense. Why not just take her in the street, then? Why wait for her to reach the safety of the diner?" She was thinking aloud, trying to straighten out the complexities of her mind, and there was no one who knew her mind quite like her soulmate.

"Unless…Unless they didn't have any idea who their target was. Maybe they were just attacking blindly," Galen offered earnestly.

"No, no." She dismissed the idea with as much gentleness as she possessed. "That's not right either. They wouldn't have singled out the witch, then."

"Okay, say they already knew the girl was their target. What if they had been misinformed? What if they had been led to believe she would already be inside by the time of the ambush?"

"Yes," a small, triumphant smile quirked the corner of her lips. "Galen, that has to be it." The minute grin smoothed itself out almost instantly as another question struck hard on the heels of the last. "But that still doesn't bring us any closer to knowing why they wanted her. Who was she?"

The witch that Galen had been speaking to, a wiry man with gray in his blond hair, had followed Galen a few steps, and as patiently as he had observed their dialogue, he now interposed himself between them with a firm hand on Keller's elbow that drew the pair's attention. "My daughter," the male witch interrupted urgently. His voice was just as thin as his physique and tinged with panic. "My lord, my lady"―it took Keller a few seconds to realize she was the one being addressed―"please, what does the Night World want with my daughter?"


	3. Impossible, eh?

**Emotion**, n. A prostrating disease caused by the heart to the head. It is sometimes accompanied by a copious discharge of hydrated chloride of sodium from the eyes.

―Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

**chapter three**

The house was quaint in a ramshackle sort of way, charming if slightly neglected, with chipping grayish-white paint and meticulously painted blue shutters and creeping, knotted vines. It looked for all the world as if any second it would collapse back into the forest it had been carved out of, particularly that night under the eerie, surreal glow of the quarter moon. The first step up to the sagging porch gave an ominous creak when Dillion settled his foot on it, and Rory involuntarily clutched his shirt at the sound. She mumbled something apologetic as she loosened her fingers, before quickly brushing off her embarrassment with a derisive comment about the stairs' ability to support their combined weight. The werewolf laughed her concerns off heartily with the assurance that these particular stairs had outlasted three generations of O'Connells―something which did little to dispel her doubts.

Dillion took the last few steps two at a time, just for the novelty of jostling her nerves further, all the while humming to himself with all the pleasure of a child with a secret. He performed an unspeakably graceful and coordinated motion, opening the surprisingly unlocked front door without shifting the bundle of witch in his arms. He kicked the door shut behind him, and the tuneless ditty that had been hanging on his lips came to a triumphant close.

Rory's first impression was of ridiculously flame-red hair cascading over the arm of an old paisley-print sofa. It took her a moment to shake her eyes away from that brilliant mane to the girl draped across the living room couch, flipping absently through a magazine. The female O'Connell was practically petite next to her brother but at the same time exaggeratedly curved in the imitation of an hourglass, and her slightly slanted eyes and delicately long, pointed nose were more reminiscent of a fox than of a wolf. She must have heard their entrance, but she didn't look up, didn't pause in her perusal of the tabloid. "Watcha bag, big guy?"

"Um." Dillion's mouth quirked into its accustomed off-kilter smirk. It wasn't in his nature to overlook the humor in this situation, its inherent absurdity. "Actually, it was a pretty poor night overall. All I have to show for it is my soulmate."

_Soulmate_. And there it was, spelled out in infinitely simple terms. Simpler than any Rory could have dredged up out of the jumble of her senses. It was as if the word had been on the tip of her tongue all the while but she hadn't realized it until just now. She should have been elated, having at last fitted the final piece into the puzzle that had been unfolding since she first locked eyes with a wolf.

But Rory's mind was elsewhere at that moment. She was staring at the wolf's pretty younger sister―who was just now casting a startled stormy blue glance at Dillion―but at the same time she was staring at nothing at all. She was staring into a staggering emptiness within herself. She saw suspended in front of her in a dizzying collage the faces of her own family. Her family. Her mother, her father. Her grandmother. Her aunt and uncle, her younger cousin―the nearest thing she had to a sister. The people she loved, her anchor in this world, and she had left them all behind this night to an unknown fate in the hands of the enemy. That, that pain, was what her shell-shocked wits had been incapable of confronting, of drawing to the surface earlier in the woods.

Guilt―a luxury that she had been denied while she was fleeing from danger―now emerged in the security of the O'Connell home, where Dillion's family was untouched by the chaos that had erupted in town. The familiar emotion inundated her, all the worse for being held at bay for so long. She felt herself cracking, breaking up under the relentless pressure.

Distance and time bring a perspective that often abandons you in the heat of the moment, in the paralysis of fear. Clarity, when it came to Rory, was a lightning bolt of illumination, painfully obvious. It was effortlessly apparent now: the Council had discovered that the Dustin family had committed the unforgivable sin, intermarrying with humans not once but at least five times in its history. Most recently, Rory's great-grandfather, her grandmother's father, had been human, and Alma Dustin had expended a lifetime of energy trying to bury her bloodlines, marrying a respectable witch from out-of-state and raising two children in the strictest of environments. The greatest irony of the Alma's life was that her own son, her eldest, her most sensible offspring, had fallen helplessly for yet another human. Aurora Dustin was a living, breathing reminder of the shame that had haunted the family generation after generation, that inexplicable attraction they had for humans.

Rory thought in all probability that she had exposed her existence to the world when she had applied to college last fall. It was not so implausible to think that somewhere there was a Council member sitting on a college entrance board. Even less implausible in light of recent events because there had to be a reason why the Night World had suddenly unearthed a long-forgotten, minor branch of witches that had been secreted in an isolated area of Louisiana for nearly two centuries.

She must have known, subconsciously, the moment she was ensnared by a panther's gray eyes. She must have known, deep down, in the typically unobtrusive way of her premonitions that the Council had sent its troops to exterminate the Dustin line for its transgressions. And she, Aurora, had unthinkingly brought this on all of them. And she had been the one of all the family to freeze in their moment of most dire need.

_Why had she been born a coward?_ From childhood, she had always been the most cautious, the last to climb the tallest branches of a tree or accept a dare, the last to break the rules or start a fight, the last to speak her mind, the first to turn and run, the most thoughtful, the quietest, the most shy―In short, the least likely person to do anything that might surprise you. True enough, she didn't have the raw ability for any sort of heroics. Rory had long since come to accept that she had simply been born with restrictions on her powers; not every part-witch suffered the kind of diminishment in talent that Rory did―as proven by any number of lost witches―but Rory was also the product of an exceptional number of mixings between human and witch blood. Her birthright was a tenuous balance, a blurring of the distinction between human and inhuman, some witch, mostly human, too powerful to be mistaken for completely mortal and too weak for all but the simplest of spells―a witch, but without that wellspring of energy and talent, like a tree with no roots to tap the soil. But more importantly, her lineage had resulted in her intrinsic lack of confidence; she was always unsure of her own identity, since neither _human_ nor _witch_ could truly be applied to her. And she couldn't help sensing that her failing to conform to either label proved that she was weaker than both species, a frail and feeble hybrid.

Rationally or not, she now shouldered the responsibility all by herself. That failing of hers, the shame contained in her very blood, had caused her to abandon those she cared about at the most pivotal moment, and the renewed and redoubled weight of guilt was overwhelming her. Tears welled in her eyes, inevitable and unstoppable, as impossible to turn back as a tidal wave or an avalanche or any other force of nature. She cried because she was sure of the worst, that they were all dead and she was alone in the world and there was no one to blame but herself that she was the only one left alive. Not so long ago, her survival instincts had spurred her impulsively into flight, intent on living to see the next dawn. But now that her higher brain was functioning again, she had only regret that she had not died earlier that night, standing beside her family.

Casey was off the couch and several steps across the room faster than any human teenager could have managed. "What did you _do_ to her?" she hissed at her brother, stirred by the sight of the older girl's tears. She moved closer, throwing her arms around the upper torso of the forlorn witch, as if she were trying to shelter Rory from Dillion, and murmuring comforting words to her fellow female. "Hey, hey, it's alright. Don't worry. He's a pretty decent guy, I swear," Casey said, just as incapable of understanding as Rory was of speaking.

Dillion was stunned. He didn't even have the presence of mind to protest that he hadn't _done_ anything. He simply looked powerlessly between the furious redhead and his weeping soulmate―and if he hadn't been supporting Rory he might have thrown up his arms in despair.

°°°

Alma, the Dustin family matriarch, sat stiff and regal as a queen holding court in her straight-backed cherry wood chair, her white hair swept back from her brow in a severe bun, her chin parallel with the floor, her indigo eyes revealing not weakness but an unquenchable fire. She possessed all the dignity of a witch who lived with the knowledge that she had done the nearly impossible, that she had produced two healthy male witches in a species dominated by females. Her sons, or the 'boyos' as she affectionately referred to them, flanked her on either side like an honor guard. Silas, the silvery-blond that had pulled Galen aside earlier, was positioned on her right, and Forrest, who had the chocolate curls of his dear departed father and the furrowed brow of man with troubles on his mind, on her left. Forrest had linked his hand with that of his wife Heather, a witch who had come to the family from Shreveport, and they were both looking with concern at their twelve-year-old daughter. Arabella―or Bella as she was affectionately dubbed by the family―was a self-assured young woman and a budding beauty with waves of thick, dark hair and overlarge doe brown eyes, but just now she had very little composure to speak of. Her small, pointed chin was trembling with the strain of controlled emotion.

The last member of the Dustin family had her arm draped around her niece to offer what comfort she could, but she had turned her face away from the rest of the family to conceal the fact that she was the most undone occupant of the room. Tears ran a soundless course down Samantha Dustin's face as she held herself absolutely still; Sam always made an effort to go quietly unnoticed. It was not that her mother-in-law had ever expressed in word or deed any disapproval of her―in fact, Alma showed no prejudice at all, for Rory was not-so-secretly the apple of her grandmother's eye―but as Silas's human wife Sam was excruciatingly aware that she was a disappointment, and she struggled privately to hold herself to Alma's invisible standards.

Galen and Keller had been invited up to Alma's apartment over the diner to join the family's vigil, but once there they had little idea what was expected of them. They sat a little too close together on the couch, taking comfort from each other's nearness in the face of their uneasiness. Keller was made all the more uncomfortable by Bella's presence in the room. There is nothing in the world quite like the odor of a pubescent witch, and it had set her stomach to roiling. As a witch approaches biological maturity, its scent has the tendency to shift in erratic patterns, being at once child-like while hinting at the power of the adult it will become, the two identities superimposed over each other in a disquieting mixture. It's a subtle thing, like catching sight of something in the corner of your eye and turning your head to find it disappeared, and just as infuriating. The smell is uncanny, to say the least, and confusing to a born predator. Keller's natural instincts were urging her to get as far away as possible from this strange creature, but she could do little but clench her jaw in frustration.

The eight occupants of the sitting room were organized in an impromptu circle, as if holding a séance or forming a protective perimeter for one of the more complicated spells, but the only enchantment that held the room was silence. And it seemed that no living voice would break the hex that lay on them; instead it was an electronic one that dissipated the dead air―the demanding ring of Galen's mobile phone shrieking in the quiet. The shapeshifter glanced quickly at the caller-id before handing the phone wordlessly to Keller. The gray-eyed teenager flipped the cell open and waited without offering any form of salutation.

"Hey, Boss," Winnie's grainy voice came weakly over the line. "That name you asked me to pull up research on―"

"Dustin," Keller interrupted brusquely without hearing the rest. "Dustin―it means 'Dusk-Keeper'. _Aurora_ Dusk-Keeper."

Winfrith Arlin easily read the tense note in her team leader's tone, and she was wise enough to know better than to cut short Keller when her temper was on such a tight leash, but when Winnie spoke up again an undertone of urgency had crept into her soft voice. "No, no, that's not the problem. The thing is―well, are you sure that's the girl's _real_ name?"

"Real name?" Keller echoed expressionlessly, one eyebrow rising. "It's the only name we have."

"You don't understand," Winnie protested with gentle insistence. "The Dustins are part of witch history―and by that I mean they _are_ history. They're extinct. The Dustins were wiped out during the witch trials in Germany in the middle of the seventeen hundreds."

"There has to be some sort of mistake." Keller unconsciously dug claws she didn't have in her human form into the material of the couch. "You're sure that every one of them was destroyed? Not even one survived?"

"None of them. I'm positive. Witches are pretty meticulous about keeping records of these things." Winnie's voice dropped to become even more inaudible, as if she were suspicious of eavesdroppers. "I'd be careful, if I were you. Whoever these people are, they're not the Dustins. It's impossible."

"Impossible, eh?" Keller glanced surreptitiously at Silas, her gaze running thoughtfully over his thin face with its hawkish nose and brown eyes brimming with sorrow. Something suspiciously like pity moved in her chest, and in that moment she recognized that she was in over her head. She was already too deeply involved to be skeptical of this grieving parent. "Well, Mr. Dustin is sitting right here. Perhaps you'd like to tell _him_ about the statistical improbability of his existence."

There was a ripple of static along the connection as Winnie chuckled. Thankfully, her own peculiar sense of humor prevented her from being insulted by Keller's frequently scathing sarcasm. "No thanks, Boss. It'll be much more―_interesting_―if you handle that yourself." The witch paused before murmuring a sincere, "Take care," and the line went dead.

Keller deposited the cell phone back into Galen's lap, the motion covering her frantic mental scramble for some sort of strategy, before looking up to find that Alma's bright, extraordinary gaze was fixed on her. "You shouldn't be so hard on your friend." Alma's voice was a gale whipping through the trees, strong and firm and some thirty years younger than her body. "She's right, of course. Technically, all the Dustins _are_ long dead."

Whatever half-formed plans Keller had in mind crumbled. "How did you…" she trailed off as a thought struck her. She hurriedly reviewed her half of the phone conversation―the only half that should have to been audible to the rest of the room, with the exception of Galen and his cat-sharp ears―for any betraying statements, and found them. Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you, then?"

Alma shrugged her slight shoulders. "That's a difficult question to answer directly."

Keller crossed her arms. She was acutely aware of just how exposed she and Galen were in this stranger's home, and that there would be no quick exit. "We'll settle for the indirect explanation."

Alma spread her hands, palms open, as if to assure Keller that she meant no harm. "Please, there's no need to be rude, dear. Let an old woman move at her own pace. I was just about to tell you about Ursula Dustin. When she was a young woman―about your own age―she was disowned by her family for eloping with a human, Johannes Mehler, and her existence was erased from all the family histories for that disgrace. She surely would have been killed under Night World law, but she and Johannes had already escaped to England. Half a dozen years after that, a minor drought hit Germany and the local villagers blamed the Dustins; the entire family was killed in one night. But that's an unpleasantness I'd rather not delve into. The point is that Ursula severed all ties to the Night World when she married Johannes, but she never gave up witchcraft. Ursula's granddaughter Elsa was the one to immigrate to the United States, and eventually here, to Louisiana." The elderly witch smiled, and her smile was an invitation to ease the tensions smoldering in the room. "We are Ursula's descendants, so the name Dustin does not really belong to us. We could just as easily have chosen to be called Mehler, or any other surname, but Dustin seemed the best way to honor our forbearers. We did not think the dead would begrudge us that."

Keller was undoubtedly relieved by the disclosure, and she attempted to make her tone as non-confrontational as possible, but she couldn't erase the frown tugging at her lips. "I'm sorry for accusing you, but you understand how delicate a situation we're in. Anything else like that―maybe we should both try to share information more freely. If we're going to protect Aurora, that is." Her forefinger endeavored to iron out the wrinkle between her eyebrows. "And that's going to be more difficult now, if she's not in the official records. It makes the reason the Council targeted her all that more obscure."

Galen leaned forward, catching everyone's attention in his subtle way. "Mrs. Dustin, your story makes me wonder…if your family doesn't officially exist in _any_ Night World census, how did Circle Daybreak recommend us to come to you?"

Alma turned a true smile on the young man, her indigo eyes sparkling; if Keller put people on edge, Galen always managed to strip away their defenses. "Why, I had a premonition, child. I called the Nashville headquarters myself and offered my services in the event two shapeshifters should be stranded in this area. And I honestly believe that I made the right choice because the two of you coming here have saved my granddaughter's life. I'm sure of it. If the family hadn't assembled to greet you at the diner, Rory would have been working her shift there alone tonight. As it was, she was late to our meeting because I sent her out to buy new linens for the guest room." Alma's laugh was a crackle, booming like the unexpected crash of thunder. "Can't have our heroes sleeping on a bare mattress, now can we?"

°°°

Aurora was sure that her face would never lose its reddish glow; there was no mortification worse than this. Not only was this the worst night of her life, but here she was, spending it with strangers who had just witnessed her complete and utter emotional breakdown. She sat ramrod-straight, sandwiched between Dillion and Casey on the couch, valiantly concentrating on holding her shoulders steady against the aftershocks of her disintegration, each sniffle threatening to shake her self-control. On one side, Casey squeezed her hand periodically. On the other, Dillion's arm had fallen naturally around her, and his fingers traced small, neat, soothing circles across her back. Rory didn't have the heart to inform him that the tingles this action caused in her spine were seriously threatening her state of mind.

"It's my fault. It has to be." Rory felt obligated to clarify her insensible ramblings of a few minutes before, to prove to these people that she wasn't quite as crazy as she appeared to be. "They must have found out about me. The Council can't suffer a half-breed like me to live, and they came to eliminate the entire family."

"First of all," Casey's voice cut firmly and curtly through the last syllables of Rory's rationalization, "it is _not_ your fault. You were born as you are. End of story. And second of all…that's _ridiculous_."

"Casey," Dillion reprimanded his sister in his most stern big-brotherly tone. "Have some sensitivity." He softened his features to cast a contrite and almost bashful look at Rory under long, charcoal eyelashes. "You'll have to forgive our people skills. We don't have much contact with anyone outside of the pack. And Casey's more prone than most to speak her mind."

"Sorry," the redhead gritted with near-sincerity, "but I'm just trying to tell her the truth. Really, what does the Council care about a mixed-blood witch in the middle of nowhere? We're not living in the Dark Ages anymore; the Night World doesn't go around massacring entire villages to keep its secret these days―it would get too much coverage on the national news. And besides, the Council has bigger fish to fry, what with the end of the world and all."

Dillion twisted his lips into a slight grimace as he narrowed his eyes at his younger sibling. "As much as a disapprove of her manners, Casey's got a point. The Council wouldn't expend so many resources solely on a couple of harmless witches." His hand traveled up to ruffle the ends of Rory's hair and his expression relaxed. "And regardless of their motivation, I doubt they were expecting to meet so much opposition tonight. Between your family, the vampires, and the Witch Child's companions, I'm almost positive a strike team like that would have retreated after a few minutes. They're not trained for sustained fighting like that, and if they couldn't foresee an easy victory―well, the Council can't risk losing loyal flesh the way it used to. It's entirely possible that no one was hurt."

Rory glanced once at each of the two werewolves. She wasn't trembling any longer. "This is all very nice to hear. It's all very logical and reassuring―but…" her hand moved to hover over the tight spot in her chest, "I can't shake this feeling that―"

"No," Dillion interrupted with a swing of his head. "I won't allow you to blame yourself. Whatever is going on around here, it's big, bigger than any single one of us."

"What _is_ going on around here?"

Three heads snapped around to stare at the doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen. Two men had swelled up to fill the opening, and Rory's pulse jumped at the sight. It took a long moment for her panic-stricken brain to find the proper connections for that voice and the face she was now presented with. When the answer came back to her, she wondered how they ever could have ignored the presence of Liam O'Connell long enough for him to steal up behind them unnoticed. Liam had the same larger-than-life quality of his son, except that Liam was possessed with every attribute that Dillion was not. Liam was calm and unmovable and indecipherable, and he held himself with a quiet dignity that demanded attention and respect. The O'Connell alpha measured a respectable six feet even, but the poise he carried himself with added an invisible inch or two to that total. He had a full, thick head of wavy silver hair that had once been a color to rival Dillion's and dark, bottomless, inscrutable blue eyes.

Beside Liam anyone would have looked awkward―even the tall, lanky redhead that stood at his shoulder. Liam's younger son was a handsome, serious-looking teenager, and if his limbs appeared a little too long and ungainly now, there was the promise that within a year or two he would grow nicely into them. The boy shifted his weight forward, leaning over his father's shoulder to get a better view, and as he did the overhead light shot his red hair through with shining streaks of gold and swept away the shadows covering his face to reveal eyes the color of ripe blueberries. Eyes to match his father's and his sister's.

_A family of blue-eyed wolves_, the stray thought slipped nearly unnoticed across the surface of Rory's mind.

Dillion's lone dimple made a stunning reappearance. "Hey, Papa."

Liam took a handful of steps forward and his subtle, imposing presence swelled to fill the room. He folded his arms across his chest, but there was nothing reproachful in the gesture. "Here Ulf and I thought you'd gone stark raving mad and run off into the woods on us, Dillion, and we come back to find you safe and sound at home. Not only that, but we also find this young lady on our couch who looks suspiciously like she's been crying." Not once through all this did Liam's tone change in surprise or anger or any other emotion, remaining unruffled and pensive, as if all this was something he had expected to happen all along.

Liam's eldest child chuckled in his open, effortless way. "Yeah, sorry about abandoning you in the middle of a hunt. I got sort of…distracted."

"I can see how," Liam observed levelly. He navigated around the edge of the couch and came to stand directly in front of Rory. "Aurora Dustin." He smiled thinly at her, and if it wasn't a blindly radiant smile, it was a genuine one filled with inexpressible kindness. "It's a shame we've never been properly introduced before this." And then the werewolf did the completely unexpected, extending a hand to the witch.

Rory was so stunned by Liam's reaction to her, she automatically began to stand out of politeness to accept the handshake. Dillion reacted immediately, a gentle but firm hand on her collarbone pressing her back into the cushions. Liam cast an inquisitive glance at his son, but he waited on an explanation with infinite patience.

"Her ankle. It's probably just bruised, but it's best if she keeps off it."

Liam nodded gravely and opened his mouth to comment, but Casey was incapable of restraining herself any longer. "You're not angry with Dillion, are you Papa? For bringing Rory here?" She reached up to place a pleading hand on her father's arm. "Because he did the right thing, what with everything that's happened in town and her ankle being injured―and she is his soulmate, after all."

There was nearly imperceptible widening around the corners of Liam's eyes, the sole sign that he was a bit overwhelmed by all this information. He placed a comforting hand over his daughter's and offered another one of his slight smiles. "Your brother's not in trouble, sweetheart. But I do think we need to all sit down and sort through what's happening here."

"Of course, Papa," Dillion agreed readily, trying to mask the fact that he was relieved not to be reprimanded for his actions, and failing completely. He turned his head to call out to his brother, "Don't hover, Ulf. Come on in and say hello to Rory."

The youngest O'Connell turned a brilliant ruby to match the hue of his hair, dutifully came to stand a foot away from the couch, and mumbled something inaudible as his gaze focused somewhere over Rory's right shoulder.

Dillion grinned good-naturedly and gave his younger sibling a teasing poke in the ribs. "What was that you said?"

Ulf scowled at his brother. "I said, 'Hello'."

Dillion twisted to offer Rory a conspiratorial wink. "You'll have to forgive Ulf. He doesn't meet many girls."

Ulf made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and took a wild swing at the dark-haired boy. Dillion easily ducked and returned in kind with another blow to Ulf's ribcage. A few more swipes were exchanged between the two, and in a matter of moments they were in engaged in a full-fledged brawl on the hardwood floor.

Casey leaned over to place a sympathetic hand on Rory's shoulder. "Don't let them bother you. I've lived with the two of them all my life, and I _still_ haven't figured out this bizarre greeting ritual of theirs."

Liam's face was fixed in an oddly bemused expression, the corners of his lips twitching as if he wanted desperately to laugh, but was afraid doing so would condone the activity.

Under any other circumstances, Rory most likely would have joined in their amusement at the boys' behavior. But just now she was transfixed by the violence that came so naturally to this family; not that there was anything remotely malicious about the O'Connells, but there was plainly a hint of aggression and of controlled power that unconsciously underlay all their actions. It was in the boys' mock wrestling match, it was in the hint of a snarl in Casey's voice, it was even in Liam's stillness, the stillness of a predator patiently stalking its prey. The wolf was an inseparable force in every motion. And for a witch that had been raised in a race that honored the peaceful balance of nature, this was a completely alien concept. It was an unmistakable reminder of why the werewolves and witches had remained so wary of each other over the years, of how little they truly understood about each other.

The scuffle came to its natural conclusion, Dillion hauling his brother to his feet and affectionately ruffling his hair. "It gets harder to beat you every time," he conceded with a note of praise.

Ulf brushed off Dillion's hand and beamed in spite of himself, all his shyness forgotten. Dillion had an underhanded method for putting just about anyone at ease in any situation. "I was being generous. It didn't seem right to thrash you in front of your new girlfriend."

Liam's virtually nonexistent smirk widened by a fraction, but his voice betrayed none of his silent approval. "If we have reached a ceasefire, boys, perhaps we can all sit down and have a serious discussion."

"Yes, Papa,"his sonschorused. A brief struggle ensued as the two werewolves scrambled for prime real estate on the couch, with Dillion getting the upper hand and reclaiming his position next to Rory. Ulf was relegated to a precarious perch on the arm of the sofa.

Liam pulled up an arm chair, taking his time in settling into it, crossing his legs at the knee and steepling his fingers. "Now, if someone would explain, I'd be much obliged."

Dillion glanced at Rory, who looked back at him. There were no words necessary. Rory wouldn't have been able to hold her composure through a second telling, so Dillion recounted everything she had told him to Liam. All except for a few details about that night that only the two of them would ever share.

Liam accepted all Dillion had to say with the same unchanging expression, and when the son was finished his father sat in contemplative silence long enough to cause a nervous flutter in Rory's abdomen. "I think," he said at long last, "that Dillion's correct. A task team like the one that attacked the diner would have withdrawn after a few minutes. And I have the utmost confidence that our witch friends could have held their own that long." Liam paused, and the whole room hung on his breath. "But I also think that it's rather late. We should all get some sleep and return to town when the sun's up. If that doesn't bother you, Aurora, I'd feel best if I knew you were safe in our home tonight. Dillion and I will drive you into town first thing in the morning." His dark eyes fell in all their intensity on her face, and she recognized in that gesture that this was a man who had spent a lifetime protecting his family, and he was now extending that protection to her―not out of any sense of duty to the neighboring group of witches, but because he was a father, and a good man.

She nodded mutely, and a sense of resolution and calm washed over her, allowing her to once again feel her own exhaustion, a bone-deep ache. She unconsciously sagged against Dillion's shoulder, and he brought up an arm to support her. She might have no shortage of enemies these days, but neither did she lack for allies.


	4. You ready?

**Kill**, v.t. To create a vacancy without nominating a successor.

―Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

**chapter four**

Two steaming ceramic mugs were deposited on the kitchen counter in front of Keller and Galen.

"It's the house special," Alma confided with a sly smile and a laugh like paper being crinkled. "My own concoction. Just a few herbs guaranteed to clear the mind, wipe away your troubles, and bring sweet dreams. Not to mention you'll sleep like a log."

The two teenagers dutifully wrapped their hands around the scalding cups, their fingers dancing across the surface to avoid being burned. Galen gripped the mug by the handle and leaned in to take a couple of tentative sips, draining away the topmost liquid lapping at the sides and threatening to overflow. Keller blew softly on hers before taking a deep drink, as if willing the tea to truly wash away the nagging worries on her mind. Both shapeshifters offered up their enthusiastic appraisal of Alma's brew along with contented smiles, and the old witch allowed herself a quiet glow of satisfaction. There were very few people impervious to Galen's charisma, but Alma also found that after their initial tense encounter she had a growing soft spot for Keller as well. The dark-haired girl reminded Alma of herself in a roundabout sort of way, all rough edges and good intentions. And with her own granddaughter missing, these two were excellent surrogates.

Silas leaned against the sink, staring broodingly into his own tea, a mixture that he had put together himself not for sleep but for focusing and sharpening the senses; he didn't intend on getting any rest that night. He had sent his wife home to their house a few blocks away in the company of his brother, his sister-in-law, and his niece to take solace in each other, to keep watch for Rory there, and possibly to sleep. But he had remained at the apartment to keep his own vigil and to protect his mother if danger were to return.

"It makes me nervous," he said to no one in particular, or maybe just to his mug. "The longer that she's gone, the more that could happen to her, and I feel so helpless just sitting around the kitchen drinking tea."

"It's not necessarily a bad sign that Aurora hasn't come back," Keller offered with as much conviction as she could muster. "If she's found a safe place for the night, it's better that she stay put until the sun's up again. The Council's vampires and 'shifters have an advantage over her in the dark."

"Not that the Council's prepared for any real maneuvers tonight," Galen tagged on hastily, trying to dispel any images of Rory cornered by a snarling pack of 'shifter wolves that Keller's last statement might have conjured. "They might do some basic scouting, a little reconnaissance, but they aren't any more prepared for a hunt than we are. They were dealt a serious blow this evening."

Alma was Silas's mother, and therefore was not required to be quite as considerate as the teenage Daybreakers. "Stop fretting, boyo," she commanded, whip-sharp. "I've told you time and again the girl will be just fine. She will come back to us when she's ready, and nothing we do will make that a moment sooner."

The thin, middle-aged man grimaced but didn't dare a full-fledged scowl. Alma's word was law among the family, and he would never go so far as to outright question one of her premonitions, but he had discovered a number of loopholes over the years. Alma had a particular fondness not only for her firstborn grandchild, but also for her firstborn child that he'd learned to exploit. "Even still," he murmured, a supplicant, "it would put me at ease as a father to know I had made an effort. Perhaps in the morning we could have our own small search―for my conscience."

Keller frowned at the inch or so of murky liquid remaining in her mug, already feeling the calming, drowsy effects and willing her sluggish mind back into motion. "Galen and I could be of some assistance. Not much, but it's something. We're designed for stalking not tracking, but we can pick up a scent and follow it a small distance. But if the trail's cold…" She shook her head bleakly, "We're only two shapeshifters and a grid search of a forest this size would take weeks, maybe a month or two."

"It's times like these that make you wish you had bloodhounds handy," Galen added in a half-hearted attempt at levity.

Silas stopped contemplating his tea and turned his eyes, oddly sharp and aware, on the golden-haired prince. "Not bloodhounds…_wolves_."

"You mean _were_wolves?" Keller asked at the same time Alma slammed her tiny fist into the counter with a resounding _thwack_.

"_Absolutely not_," the petite witch's voice rang out. "We will have nothing to do with them."

Silas laid down his mug, straightened his shoulders, and the injured parent transformed into an imposing presence. "Liam is not his father. He's a decent man, as decent as werewolves come."

The air around Alma positively crackled with restrained energy. "It does not matter what he may or may not appear to be. We both know what kind of stock the O'Connells come from. Old Ciaran O'Connell was _banished_ from the whole of Ireland because his father was a man-eater. They're savages descended from savages."

Silas hung his head, whatever spirit of rebellion that had inhabited him deflated. He had no valid arguments; he himself lived with the intimate knowledge of how bad blood could haunt a family through the years.

"I'd be interested in hearing more about these werewolves," Keller persisted because she had no reason to fear Alma. "If they could bring us any closer to locating Aurora or if they've noticed anything out of the ordinary recently, Circle Daybreak would be _very_ keen on speaking with them. And the only approval Galen and I would need would be from the Daybreakers," Keller inserted the veiled threat, regarding Alma steadily over the rim of her cup with glaciers in her gray eyes. Circle Daybreak's interests took precedence over any ancient witch's irrational fears, no matter how sweet and sincere she appeared to be.

"Perhaps now is the perfect time to let go of old prejudices," Galen appealed, his compassion a flawless counterpoint to Keller's argument. They were a team, the pair of them, attacking simultaneously from two different angles. "There is nothing quite like a crisis to bring people together. And the one thing we need more than anything else right now is cooperation, if we're to stand together against the end of the world."

"You don't even truly need to bury the proverbial hatchet," Keller commented with a wry smile, "You just need to refrain from burying it in each other's back."

"For Aurora's sake," Galen pleaded.

Alma sagged against the counter with a sigh. It had been a long time since she had been in this position; since she had become the family matriarch, there had been no higher authority than her to appeal to. But these teenagers were not hers to command as she pleased, and she could not risk alienating them because they would be pivotal in protecting her granddaughter from forces she could not. For the first time in her life, she felt old and tired and overpowered.

"The O'Connells live in the middle of the forest," Alma offered the information as if it pained her. "Silas will take you in the morning. If Rory hasn't returned by then, that is," she amended harshly as an afterthought. "Now, shoo." She flapped her hands in the teenagers' direction. "Go on to bed, children. It has been a long day, and tomorrow will prove to be longer still. Rest while you can."

°°°

Much to Rory's chagrin, Dillion insisted rather vehemently on carrying her up the stairs and gallantly escorting her to her room for the night. This decision settled upon not quite unanimously, the three other O'Connells exchanged knowing glances that foreshadowed jokes to come at the two teenager's expense once they were out of earshot.

At the door farthest from the staircase, Dillion gently lowered Aurora until her feet found purchase on the slick wood floor of the upstairs hallway, and she gingerly established her balance. She swayed, her injured foot tucked up behind her other knee in a flamingo-esque pose, and wondered numbly which would hurt more if she upended: her bruised skull or her bruised pride.

"You're sure you can―" he began.

"Yes," she affirmed without waiting for the rest, perhaps secretly concerned that she would be overruled like she had been downstairs. "I'm sure I can handle it from here."

Dillion appeared doubtful, but he handed over his other burden―an oversized shirt and a pair of soft running shorts loaned by Casey―without a dissenting word.

Rory accepted the bundle of clothes with a murmur of gratitude, then twisted awkwardly to look uneasily over her shoulder. "Are sure that Ulf―"

"He doesn't mind loaning you his room," Dillion interrupted her in such an identical manner to how she had him that it seemed impossible that it was coincidence. _They couldn't possibly be that similar, could they?_ "In fact, I'd say he considers it an honor."

Rory snorted skeptically. "Ask him if it's such an honor in the morning, when his back's stiff from sleeping on your floor."

Dillion laughed as if she had caught him off guard and the sound had been drawn involuntarily out him. "Ah," he drawled appreciatively, "so our little witchling's witty to boot."

Rory smiled hesitantly and allowed her eyes to rest on her lone foot, the color rising in her cheeks. She had never known how to accept a compliment with grace. Dillion's hand stretched out to cup her chin tenderly, drawing her face back up. There was a slightly bewildered expression on his face. "Do you always do that?"

"Do what?" The air around her was thick and buzzing, like she had stumbled into a cloud of drunken honeybees, and she couldn't quite concentrate on the meaning of his question.

"Look at the floor. When you're embarrassed."

"Um." Her eyebrows drew together as she struggled to pull a thought out of the sudden whirlwind in her mind. "I guess so. Why?"

"No reason." He shook his head, and she got the sense that he could hear the drone of the honeybees as well. "It's…_cute_."

She almost allowed her glance to skitter away again, but his hand was in the way. Silence wrapped them with the efficiency of a blanket, muffling all her senses except the feeling of his hand on her skin, so intense that she could almost count the ridges on his fingertips. She coughed to clear the obstacle that had suddenly sprung up in her throat. "So…"

He grinned, which sent a fresh wave of heat through her body, but he also removed his hand, making breathing infinitely easier. "Don't act so serious," he admonished lightheartedly. "We're not getting married or anything. Our fates are only intertwined for the rest of eternity, that's all."

She laughed a little hollowly. She wasn't really sure what her opinion of this 'soulmate' thing was yet. It required a lot less energy to simply not think about it. "All the more reason I should try to make a good first impression."

"Oh," he said, smile widening and sarcasm thickening, "you mean the impression you made when I found you swimming in the underbrush…Or the impression you made when you christened me with that ingenious new nickname―what was it, _puppy_?...Or the impression you made crying hysterically when I tried to introduce you to my sister..."

"Okay, okay." She held out a hand in a mock attempt to fend off his teasing attacks, nearly touched him, and pulled back at the last second. "I get the point. But that's me, I guess. I'm not particularly graceful or tactful or anything like that."

"Yet somehow I find everything thing about you utterly enchanting and completely charming." He swept up her hand―the one not clutching her pajamas―and held it to his heart dramatically with the flair of a born showman. "Whatever spell you've cast on me, I'm afraid I'll never be in my right mind again―nor will I ever want to be."

She made a face at him. "Someone watches too many old movies," she accused, "trying to use lines like that."

He affected his most piteous expression. "Are you saying that you weren't impressed?"

"Yes―no―" she stuttered, flustered and unsure of what answer was expected of her, "I don't know."

Dillion suppressed another flashing smile and schooled his expression into some semblance of solemnity before sketching a gentlemanly bow over the hand he still had possession of. "I fear I will have to cut my losses and concede this assault on your affections." He glanced at her over the top of her hand, their eyes snagging, before adding forebodingly, "For tonight. It's been a pleasure, witchling." His lips brushed her knuckles in a chaste, feather-light touch that left her shuddering with the impact. "Now get some shut eye. You'll need it." And with that, he released her and padded smugly down the hall.

There was nothing left for Rory to do but hobble unsteadily over to the bed, nursing the suspicion that somehow he had gotten the upper hand over her after all.

°°°

Astonishingly, someone had found time to make the two twin beds in guest room with the crisp new sheets that Aurora had dropped off at the apartment before her ill-fated trip to the diner downstairs.

Keller stepped inside the bedroom, Galen following at her heel, and he hastily turned to shut the door securely behind them. Before Keller could even draw a breath, Galen had seized her by the wrists and pulled her into a bear hug. "I've been waiting _hours_ for this," he murmured into the curve of her throat. She chuckled softly at the tickle his words elicited and tangled her hands in the short golden hairs on the back of his neck. _I love you._ It wasn't clear which one of them the thought came from, not that it particularly mattered. She surrendered herself to the moment, to the beauty of it, the security of it, the immensity of it. Surrender was no longer quite so intimidating as she once thought it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, hardly even recognizing she was speaking. They had entered that space where things like time and rational thought were abandoned. "I'm really, really sorry. I put you in danger again, and on top of that I was angry with you and―"

Galen relinquished his grip on her only enough to hold her at arm's length and shake her once, hard. "Stop that. If you're sorry, then I'm sorry too. I started it, trying to force you into a role that shouldn't be forced on anyone. I should have known that it will take time for you to see it how I do."

One corner of her lips quirked upwards. Some detached part of her mind recognized that they were both a little hysterical, shell-shocked; it hadn't been too long ago they had faced yet again the possibility of losing each other, and they were still dealing with the reverberations of that. "It seems we're at an impasse. Neither one of us can prove we're more sorry than the other."

Galen looked hopeful. "If this is a contest, is there some kind of prize awarded to the winner?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I don't know. I don't care. I just want to put it behind us."

He liberated her arms in order to reach out and brush away a strand of hair that had fallen forward into her eyes. "I agree for now, but we're going to have to talk about it eventually." He fixed her with a look from his gem-bright eyes, serious yet sympathetic at the same time; his stare told her that they didn't have to be on opposing sides of this argument.

"I know," she admitted bleakly. "Now's not the right time, though. You're here with me, healthy and whole, and that's all I want to think about. We were having too nice a moment to ruin it by being serious."

"You know," he mused after a few seconds had gone by, scheming smile taking form on his face, "the summer solstice would be the perfect opportunity to start talking about it. That is, if you consent to spend it with my parents and me."

"I'll think about it." She paused for effect. "But it's going to have to be on my terms."

"You are absolutely, positively _not_ wearing one of your jumpsuits," he protested fervently, reading the hint of a smile in her eyes.

Her lips twitched, betraying her amusement. "I will if I want to. There's nothing wrong with my jumpsuit."

"Of course, there's nothing _wrong_ with it, but…this is kind of an elegant affair. I―Goddess, Keller, I'll make you a dress out of 'shifter skins if you'll just promise me you won't wear a jumpsuit."

The smile she'd been wrestling with emerged. "Remember, Galen, you're in no position to negotiate. I have the leverage in this situation."

The teasing glint in her glance erased all concern he had for what she was or was not wearing. One eyebrow rose. "Leverage, huh? And just how do you intend to manipulate me?"

She balled one of her hands around the material of his shirt, yanking him forward. She sunk her lips into his just long enough for his toes to curl and his hands to creep up to her sides, then she freed him and skittered out of reach. He regarded her a little dazedly, regarded the distance that had sprung up so suddenly between them, and he laughed out loud―a white flag.

"You're the devil," he accused with a broad smile. He took a few steps backward and flopped down on one of the beds.

"That's 'demon'," she corrected with a playful growl, and tumbled after him.

°°°

"Something's wrong." Ulf stepped up behind his older brother, crossing from the light spilling out from the living room into the shadows on the front porch.

Dillion glanced sideways into his younger sibling's unreadable dark eyes, so much like their father's. He remembered with a twinge of nostalgia a time when he had been able to look down on that thatch of red hair. "I know," Dillion answered simply. If the situation hadn't been quite so serious, he might have taken a moment to feel pride in Ulf. Ulf had always been the brightest of the three of them, sharp, intuitive, and wise far beyond his years.

"I can sense them out there, too, Dillion," Ulf confided with an expansive gesture at the woods ringing the house. "Two of them close by, no more."

"For now," the usually effusive Dillion managed stiffly.

"This isn't about territory, is it?" Ulf edged closer as his voice lowered. "It's about her."

"Yes." Dillion nodded gravely. "Whoever they are, they're following her trail, for some reason I'm not sure of."

Ulf briefly touched his brother's forearm in a comforting motion. Werewolves communicated just as efficiently by physical means as they did with words. "And you're planning on sending a warning message to any others that might be coming after these two?" Ulf already knew the answer, but he transformed the statement into a question at the last second, just for the reassurance.

"Yes." Dillion was the only one of the three siblings who could lie convincingly with any degree of skill, but he didn't relish the talent and now was no time to deceive Ulf as to his true motives.

"I want to go with you."

The statement hung between them in a sudden surge of silence. Dillion wanted desperately to feel shocked or incensed or even mildly surprised, but somehow he had known this was coming all along. He effortlessly forced one of his toothy smiles and an infectious laugh. If there was something he never wanted to do, it was to wound Ulf's fragile pride with his answer; it was best if he eased into with his most jovial manner. "You've got puppy love bad, kid. You only just met the girl and you're already trying to become her knight-in-shining-armor. Next thing I know, you'll be challenging me to a duel over her honor." He adjusted his tone, unconsciously imitating Liam's unyielding intonation in a glimpse of the alpha wolf he was destined to become one day. "No. I have to do this alone. She's my soulmate; I'm the one responsible for her safety."

There was a faint tinge of red in Ulf's cheeks where his face was backlit by the artificial light escaping into the night through the open door. "If she's your soulmate that makes her pack, doesn't it? And we're _all_ responsible for the safety of the pack."

"You're too clever for your own good, you know that? If we hadn't been home schooled you would have been a shoe-in for the debate team." The joking note faded just as swiftly as it had come. "But you're only fifteen. I can't ask you to take part in something like this."

"You're not asking, and I'm not asking permission. 'Sides, a wolf shouldn't hunt alone. Especially not a quarry like this one."

Dillion gave his brother a thin, unhappy grin. There was a sickness inside him, a sadness for what was about to happen. "I can't dissuade you, then?"

Ulf shook his head resolutely. "Should I go get Papa or Casey? We might need the extra help."

"No, someone should stay here with Rory in case they move in on the house while we're gone." He shoved the uneasy feeling deep within himself, squared his shoulders, and shot his brother a look full of unspoken meaning. "You ready?"

Ulf smirked savagely with his own private victory in a way that chilled Dillion's spine. "Yes."

Dillion began to undress, quickly and efficiently, as Ulf did the same. His bare skin shivered in the chill of the night air and in anticipation of the transformation to come, the freedom of his second form. Ulf unleashed an unconscious howl as the change ripped through his body. In a matter of minutes, two wolves descended the steps in unison, one dark as the shadows and the other ruddy and bright. Dillion and Ulf left behind their human skins just as simply as they did their clothes folded neatly on the welcome mat.

As a werewolf, Dillion possessed a few more contradictions than the average eighteen-year-old. Dillion the person was a compassionate soul, even-tempered and bighearted with a free spirit and a free smile. He was intelligent, brimming with profound thought, and he had always been appointed the judge of his younger sibling's squabbles for his ability to sympathize with both sides of the argument and for his inherent fairness. Dillion the wolf had no conscience because he didn't need one. There was no malice in the heart of the wolf; it was a born predator―a killer, not a murderer. It had no remorse because it lived simply by the laws of nature, killing to eat and to live and to protect its pack.

And Ulf was right, as usual. Rory was pack now. Which meant that Dillion could have no scruples about what the wolf was duty-bound to do.

°°°

The Council's operatives discovered their former scouts in the gray hours before dawn in a grisly scene, lying no more than a few hundred feet apart. The kills had been made with human hands―or not-quite-human hands with more than average strength. The necks of the two shapeshifters, a pair of mountain lions, had been snapped from behind; it was clean, efficient, and strangely enough, merciful. They'd probably been dead before they realized what was happening.

The killers hadn't bothered to disguise the abnormally large paw prints around the perimeter of the area, a sign which seemed to indicate this was a territorial execution. These deaths would serve as a warning to anyone else who might encroach on the werewolves' swath of the woods. Or at least that's what the vampires investigating the incident concluded, since their prey was normally lured to them and their heightened senses of smell were ill-equipped for sniffing out Aurora Dustin's faint trail. If a shapeshifter wolf had been present, he would have immediately recognized that this was not simply the aggressive action of overprotective pack staking a claim.

But as it was, the team that had been tasked with retrieving the Dustin witch made note to give the werewolves a wider berth in the days to come.


	5. A what?

_A/N: I know, I know. I've been away for almost an entire year. The first year of college really knocked me off my feet in a way I wasn't expecting. But the summer has brought the writing bug back, and my heart has brought me back to this story because...well, because. Because I'm strangely attached to these characters and I couldn't seem to shake them. I hope there are still some of you out there with an interest in reading. Hopefully, if all goes well, I will keep my interest in writing._

* * *

Carnivorous, adj. Addicted to the cruelty of devouring the timorous vegetarian, his heirs and assigns. 

–Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

**chapter five**

Aurora chased an enigma through the labyrinth of her sleep-fogged brain, and unexpectedly stumbled across the biting clarity of wakefulness. Reality hit her in the chest with the force of a physical blow, and she leaned heavily against the headboard as the past and the present penetrated her consciousness. A few deep breaths, and she pushed that knowledge away for later inspection, turning all her focus on swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. She flattened one foot at a time into the bare floor, left, then right, and was relieved at the dull ache that flared in her ankle. Even if she couldn't deliberately direct the flow of healing energies in her body, she nonetheless convalesced at rate that would shock most doctors.

Somewhere, a guitar string was struck.

Memory jolted to the surface, reminding Rory of why she had slipped into awareness in the first place. A few more discordant notes followed, ringing mutedly in the hallway. She settled the remainder of her weight over her toes and staggered to the door, shaking off the aftermath of the deep, dreamless sleep of the dead and the exhausted. Her feet slid soundlessly over the icy hardwood of the hallway, never daring to stay in one place too long, drawn forward by her own private siren song. Narrowing down the source of the sound, she passed several doors before sidling up to the edge of the one opposite the stairs. She held her breath and peered around the doorframe, intent on catching a glimpse without being seen herself, and met with Dillion's silently laughing blue eyes. He sat on the edge of a bed—his bed, she assumed—dressed in old, threadbare khaki cargo shorts and a plain white shirt, dark hair fondly tousled by sleep, his eyes astonishingly bright and alert and—most alarming of all—focused on her.

_So much for covert_. She couldn't simply inch away from the door and pretend nothing had happened, and she couldn't will herself to disappear—though she felt small enough at that moment to actually be invisible. Her only option was to own up to her sneaking and move all the way into the doorway.

"Hello," she attempted to say casually, but it emerged more timorous than she imagined it would. She couldn't for the life of her decipher why the simple act of speaking had suddenly become an uphill battle. As self-conscious as she was, she had never been particularly intimidated by boys. In fact, they made her less nervous than teenage girls; their motives were easier to identify and understand, and they made for simple, uncomplicated friendships—heck, she'd even dated one or two of them. She wasn't entirely comfortable with admitting why Dillion was an exception to all those boys yet, but her shyness around him had little to do with her head and much to do with the fluttering of her pulse.

"Mornin'," he greeted her smoothly, only frustrating her further. _How did this come so easily to him?_

"So," she attempted to recover her composure, "is this your morning ritual?" She gestured vaguely at the acoustic guitar resting across his thighs. "Rouse the household with rock'n'roll?"

He flashed her what she was already terming his "wolf-ish" smile, the one which revealed miles of preternaturally white enamel and alarmingly sharp canines. "If I really wanted to wake anyone, I would have plugged in the amp," he said, and the laughter had migrated from his eyes to his voice. "Come in." He patted the empty space next to him at the edge of the bed, and she couldn't dredge up any reason to refuse.

It only took a matter of seconds to cross the distance, but it could have been a century in Rory's mind. Suspended in the uneasy space between door and bed, every detail was strangely sharp, emblazoned on her cornea as if sealing this moment in her memory forever. The whole room was decorated in shades of blue, like being submerged suddenly into an underwater world, which only contributed to Rory's suspicion that she was in over her head: sapphire paint on the walls, denim comforter, steel blue lampshade on the dresser, ultramarine rug struggling vainly to conceal the exposed floor. A teal blanket folded in the corner was the only lingering sign that Ulf had slept there. Though one had to wonder where exactly Ulf had found space to stretch out since two amps, an electric guitar, and an assortment of cases claimed the majority of space in the room. There were posters on the wall: the Rolling Stones, Muddy Waters, the Beatles, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix. On the floor was a broken-spined copy of Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_ and emerging from under the bed was the corner of Richard Dawkins' _The Selfish Gene_. All of this made for a confusing puzzle of information, and at the same time a straightforward snapshot of the life of Dillion O'Connell.

Rory cast a hesitant glance at the side of his face as she settled herself carefully beside him, but Dillion was too preoccupied to notice her nerves. He patiently plucked a few more strings, satisfying himself with instrument's tuning. Rory watched his fingers, long and nimble, and she identified the source of the callouses she'd been so acutely aware of last night. She allowed the last note to die before attempting to speak again. "I assume you play?" she said as innocently as possible. _Stupid question_, she thought, riding a growing wave of humiliation.

The way his eyebrows rose sent an unspoken message that he considered her words a challenge. Without turning his eyes away from her, Dillion unexpectedly plunged into the opening chords of Creedence Clearwater Revival's _Bad Moon Rising_. He hummed the first few notes before joining his voice to the song:

"_I see the bad moon arising  
__I see trouble on the way  
__I see earthquakes and lightnin'  
__I see bad times today."_

The smirk that never abandoned his mouth or his eyes said that he understood the irony of the song, and he enjoyed every moment of it.

"_Don't go around tonight,  
__Well, it's bound to take your life  
__There's a bad moon on the rise."_

His hands ceased moving, his palm falling against the strings to stifle the music before the song had reached its conclusion. He was looking at her, and in the depths of the arctic ice of his eyes she caught a fleeting glimpse of something elusive, unexpected: hesitation. Dillion was waiting, waiting apprehensively on _her _approval, and Rory felt the stirrings of sympathy for that anxiety she knew so well. Dillion deserved something better than the standard 'wow' or 'that was good', something that could wash away any doubt he might have in himself.

"This is what you do, then." She ran a finger reverently along the neck of the guitar. "You're the next werewolf rock star."

She was rewarded by a short bark of laughter. "I'm not that delusional. This is just a hobby. What I really want to be is a pediatrician." He wrinkled his nose. "Not that sounds any less ridiculous when you stick 'werewolf' in front of it."

"Alright, you're the next werewolf pediatrician-slash-closet-rock star." She frowned. "That's not quite as catchy, though. I think I prefer rock star."

"You're right, of course," he said with his lopsided smile. "It is catchy—catchy but not all that practical. I'll make a far better pediatrician."

Rory was feeling confident enough to lift her chin and raise her eyes to Dillion's. Her dirty dishwater blonde hair was cut in a chin-length bob, parted to the left so that at any given moment her hair usually fell forward to mask her blue eye. But just now, looking up at him, it had fallen away from her face, revealing a strikingly mismatched pair of irises. To most people, the juxtaposition of her brown eye and her blue eye was a disorienting sight that often made it difficult to bear Aurora's direct gaze—but Dillion O'Connell hardly counted as an average person. The werewolf was distracted by the motion, all conversational niceties flowing out of his mind as he was astounded by the uncommon, unconventional beauty of his soulmate. Distantly, his brain conjured up the memory of a Siberian Husky.

"So," she attempted a fluent segue with mixed results, "do you know any songs that don't mention the moon?"

He blinked, caught slightly off-guard by the inquiry. "Well, those happen to be my specialty, but yes, I do know other kinds of songs."

"May I hear one?" She tried to sound hopeful without bordering on begging.

There was a faint flush of rose in his pale cheeks, too indistinct to actually term a blush. "I'm not used to having an audience," he protested as politely as he could. "Besides, I've already entertained you with one song. It's your turn to impress me with your musical genius."

Rory reluctantly accepted the guitar he offered with an almost inaudible protest, settling it across her lap, and set her lips in a grimace. "Oh, you're in for a treat. Lucky for you, music was my worst class in high school." Strange to say 'was'. They would both be heading to college in the fall. What did that mean to this blossoming relationship? That wasn't a question she was prepared to answer.

To cover her mental hesitation, she strummed all the strings in one swoop of her hand, glancing sideways at Dillion with an almost-smile. She plucked another combination of strings, resulting in a cringe-worthy _twang_. "You're a natural, kid," he declared with as straight a face as he could manage. She made a dismissive sound, rolling her eyes at him. "All you need is a somewhat competent teacher." He scooted the few inches of separation she had retained between them, his thigh aligning parallel with hers. "May I?" His arms slid past her sides before she could coordinate her rebellious muscles into a consenting nod. He reached to cup each of her hands in his, guiding them along the body of the guitar. His chest pressed lightly into her back. She promptly forgot how to breathe. "Here, try this one: place a finger here and press one here and brush your hand here..." Together they coaxed a legitimate note from the instrument. "And voila."

He was staring into her eyes, smiling his slightly comical praise at her. She was too dazed to look away, and because their height difference was virtually nonexistent when sitting, her most direct line of vision was exactly eye-level. She was caught in the vortex of Dillion's watery blue eyes, sinking, drowning, free-falling deeper into something that she wouldn't dare to name. She _saw _him—but not seeing in the physical sense. She saw emotions like colors, read thoughts like words on a page, watched memories like abbreviated films. But he was still so distant from her, veiled and hazy behind a few layers that had yet to be striped away. Something tightened in her chest, wrenching her forward. Oddly enough, it hadn't occurred to her to be remotely afraid.

Dillion sensed it too, their minds edging closer like raindrops merging on a pane of glass. A little further, a little closer, and he would know every intimate detail, be immersed in her just as she would be in him. He felt a disquieting stab of panic. Dillion didn't lie to anyone if he could avoid it, and there were some things in his mind that for them to drawn involuntarily out him would seem too much like a deception. There were certain things he had to find the courage to say before this connection was complete, irreversible. He fought for the words: _I don't deserve this. I killed two shapeshifters last night. I killed them–I didn't let Ulf touch them. He's so young and innocent and...and _good_. I couldn't let him carry something like that on his soul. Not Ulf, he's better than that. So I killed them. To protect you...because—because, as crazy as this sounds, I love you._ But the only part that reached his lips was, "I love you."

The guitar slipped from Rory's limp fingers. Dillion caught it before she could even blink, disentangled himself from the knot of limbs they had formed, and set it delicately aside. "Wow." He rocked back a little, running a hand through his hair with an unsteady laugh that was meant to break the tension between them. "That didn't come out at all like I expected. I mean, we haven't even had an official date yet, or anything else remotely normal." He shook his head, the last of their link vanishing, air rushing in to fill the spaces between them. "Here, I've got a deal for you. I'm going to invite you downstairs for breakfast, and I'm going to whip up something for us to eat, and we'll both forget I ever said that, okay?"

Rory nodded dumbly, but a bit childishly she crossed her fingers where they lay in her lap. She was all too agreeable to breakfast, but she didn't intend on forgetting anything.

°°°

For a nocturnal creature, Dillion was remarkably a morning person. His brother and sister, however, were much more consistent with Aurora's perception of werewolves, leaning heavily on the kitchen table with bleary eyes. They had only roused themselves at this unholy hour to say their farewells to Rory.

Casey levered herself up on her elbows as the witch entered the room on Dillion's heels and attempted a bright smile with miserable results. "Sleep well, Rory?"

"Mmm," Rory hesitated at her unexpected welcome, "yes, surprisingly well." Dillion pulled out the chair beside his sister at the table and waved the witch into it with a half-bow. Rory accepted the grandiose gesture with a small, embarrassed smile which she cast at the other two occupants of the table. "And I have Ulf to thank for that. It was incredibly sweet of you to lend me your room."

The youngest O'Connell flushed and took a sudden interest in the patterns on the place mat in front of him. "It was nothing. Any somewhat-decent person would have done the same."

Casey smirked and delivered a swift kick to Ulf's kneecap under the cover of the table. Her younger brother barely suppressed his instinct to growl in pain and outrage. Dillion, who observed the exchange from his vantage point across the kitchen, prudently concealed his own smile behind the open refrigerator door.

"Slim pickings today," the dark-haired boy observed to no one in particular, shifting the attention of the room from the mortified teen at the table. "What would you say to me frying up some bacon?"

Her one visible brown eye going wide, Rory leaned forward in her seat so that she could peer around Dillion's shoulder into the depths of the refrigerator. Piled on the shelves were a few steaks, a slab of pork, and some chicken breasts. She blanched. "I'm…a vegetarian," she barely managed past the lump in her throat.

"A what?" demanded Ulf, his embarrassment forgotten as he stared unabashedly at the older girl.

"A vegetarian, idiot," Casey hissed acridly. "It means she doesn't eat meat."

"I know what it _means_," her younger brother shot back with a snarl that bared his teeth.

"Then don't ask stupid questions," Casey reprimanded with a roll of her eyes.

Dillion's polite cough cut decisively through the hostility building between his siblings with well-practiced efficiency. "That certainly changes things," he said simply. "What about…eggs?" Rory nodded her approval, and he rewarded her with the appearance of his single dimple. "Eggs it is." He scrambled around in the back recesses of the shelves and brought forth a styrofoam container which he placed on the counter, and then bent down to retrieve a pan from a cabinet beneath the sink.

Rory, afraid she might have been caught staring, turned her eyes back to the younger teens at the table, only to be struck with the realization that she had nothing at all to say. She was silently cursing herself for not being more proficient at small talk when a knock on the front door precluded any need for her to speak.

Dillion set aside the egg he had been about to crack and raised one dark brow at the pair of redheads at the table. They regarded him with equally blank expressions. With a sigh, he turned off the stove and stepped away. "No one jump to their feet," he said with artificial benevolence. "Big brother to the rescue."

°°°

Werewolves made Keller uneasy. Not for any shallow reason people might suggest with their oh-so-clever dog and cat jokes. No, the distrust ran deeper than that. With any other species, you had some inkling of where their loyalties might lie, though there was inevitably an exception or two. Vampires were solitary creatures, loyal to themselves first, and any other allegiance was secondary and easily abandoned in favor of the first. Witches had an almost unswerving, single-minded obedience to their Elders, and now the Witch Child. Shapeshifters had an ancient allegiance to the First House—unless, of course, a dragon came along.

Werewolves had the greatest capacity for blind, passionate, and often violent loyalty of all Night World creatures—but they also happened to be a wildcard. Werewolves were inherently social animals, and they held themselves to the strict code of pack, but who they chose to consider pack varied outrageously.

In years long past, werewolf pups had been stolen from their mothers and sold for small fortunes to power-hungry witches and vampires. They made the perfect soldiers for their collectors' private armies, strong and ruthless and completely selfless. The pups were raised in the households of their captors, pampered and praised and deceived to foster a love for their masters until they were old enough to send into battle. Many an innocently faithful werewolf had died in the service of a feudal vampire lord without ever realizing they were merely glorified slaves, expendable if expensive flesh. And the image of the werewolf had never recovered from those forgotten days; they'd been slaves so long it was almost a relief to be considered second-class citizens. The only thing that had changed in recent times was that the werewolves, having realized the value of their own devotion, now sold _themselves _to the highest bidder.

The majority of werewolves these days were little better than common mercenaries, and placing your trust in one would cost you a pretty penny, if not your life.

Silas had insisted on parking his car quite a way up the gravel road from the O'Connell house, obstinately convinced that any hint of his presence would put the werewolves on edge. Consequently, Keller and Galen were forced to walk by themselves some distance in silence, Keller scrutinizing their surroundings while Galen was absorbed in his own thoughts. But as the two-story home loomed a hundred feet or so in front of them, Galen skidded to a halt, grabbing his soulmate's elbow to swing her around to face him.

"Keller..."At that moment his eyes were forest-dark and pleading for understanding. "I've been thinking, and perhaps I should do the talking?"

Her pride wasn't as wounded as it might have been had Winnie or Nissa said the same thing. Besides, he was still asking her permission, and he had a valid point. Keller had an uncanny ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, but Galen was a diplomat, born and raised. She offered him an almost-gentle smile in hopes of erasing the unease on his face. "Might as well," she allowed. "I don't mind, as long as I still call the shots at the end of the day."

"Always, Boss," he agreed solemnly as he leaned in to steal a quick, thankful kiss. Then he released her and led the way up the steps to the front porch. Keller followed at her own easy pace, cautiously skirting an alarmingly rotten board, and by the time she reached him Galen had already knocked on the door. It was still some time before there was any discernable movement inside, though, and the pair exchanged anxious glances. Keller tapped her toe distractedly.

Then the entrance swung open, and a figure loomed up, nearly filling the entire frame. Stunned, Keller took an unconscious step backwards as she flicked her eye over the werewolf in a swift appraisal. Even steady Galen paled in comparison to the sheer bulk of him, excessively tall and broad but composed entirely of lean muscle. Dark hair and pale skin—the hallmark of someone who spent the majority of their time out-of-doors under the cover of the night—but her gaze snagged on those pale eyes, unguarded and expectant, and the brilliance of his welcoming smile, easy and unassuming.

_Alright_, she concluded silently. So _he's all brawn and no brains. He doesn't look like he'd have the sense to swat a mosquito._

"What can I do you folks for?" the boy—no older than her, Keller estimated—drawled in his charming accent. "You must have gotten pretty turned around to end up at our door."

"Oh, we're not lost," Galen recovered his own rattled composure with bumbling charisma. "As long as this is the O'Connell house, that is."

"Sure is," the werewolf offered with what appeared suspiciously like reluctance. He swung an arm around his neck and rubbed back and forth there absentmindedly. "Though that's certainly a new one. I'm sorry if I seem rude—it's just we don't get many visitors out this way. If you don't mind, I'd like to know your business before I invite you inside."

"Of course," Galen demurred graciously. "We were only wondering if we could speak with Liam for a few minutes?"

The teenager favored them with another one of those carefree grins that seemed to be engineered to convince others that he was completely harmless. Keller was beginning to have her doubts. "I'm afraid no one gets to him without going through me first." His tone was agreeably light and friendly, bordering on joking, but there was a seriousness about it lurking in the edges of his voice that raised the hackles on the back of the shapeshifter's neck. "If you wouldn't mind being more specific?"

The golden-haired prince hesitated, unsure of how much to give away, before settling on an approximation of the truth. "We were hoping Liam could help us with a problem of ours. There's a missing girl—uh, a witch, actually—and we—"

The smile never wavered on that handsome face, but somewhere a barricade slammed down in those watery eyes, turning them to ice. Keller shot her soulmate one of those looks only the two of them understood; this one said: _Careful. This doggie has teeth._ The werewolf cut smoothly and sweetly through Galen's voice, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid there's some long-standing disagreement between the witches and ourselves. I could tell Liam, but I don't think he take too kindly to the idea. You'd best be on your way."

He moved to close the door in Galen's gaping face, but Keller's patience for his sugary act had run out. She jammed her foot in the rapidly disappearing opening and leaned in close, her nose only coming to the middle of that large chest. "Listen, fleabag. I don't deal with guard dogs. I want to talk to Liam. _Now_."

"Easy, miss," he soothed, looking down on the top of her head. "There's no need to sling around words like that. Don't forget whose territory you're standing in."

"Don't threaten me," she hissed between her teeth, astoundingly feline. "You don't know what you're doing. That girl—"

"I know exactly what I'm doing." He nudged her boot with the toe of his tennis shoe. "I'm closing my front door. Now, if you wouldn't mind moving your foot—before I take off something you might miss…"

Galen's hand wrapped around her upper arm, but Keller stumbled back of her own accord. The whole porch seemed to quake as the door was slammed with undeniable firmness. Whirling around in a cloud of dark hair, Keller grabbed the boy beside her by the wrist and began half-dragging, half-marching him in the direction of the car. Her vision was foggy with barely-leashed rage.

"That's it," she snarled. "We're going back to tell Silas he can find his own daughter. I had a bad feeling about this from the beginning, but now I know why. No more traipsing around in the woods, and absolutely no more werewolves. We're headed to Baton Rouge come tomorrow."

"I don't think that's why you had a bad feeling." Galen's voice was soft, thoughtful, but he made no effort to slow their progress.

"Why, then?" Surprisingly, it wasn't the least bit sarcastic. Sharp, yes, but mostly just tired. His fingers wrapping around hers were taking the sharp edges off her anger, leaving behind a weary frustration.

"Aurora's in trouble. _Real_ trouble. You couldn't leave someone behind like that."

"I could, and I will," she gritted. "It's not my fault that some witch spooked at the first sight of blood, that she was stupid enough to bolt off into the woods in the middle of the night. She's not my responsibility."

"But it's not that simple, is it? If she were just some witch, the Council wouldn't be involved. And the Council _is_ your responsibility. You won't leave, Keller, because you're better than that."

Keller dug in her heels, bring them both to a dizzying halt. She half-turned to stare at the fair-haired teen, her gray eyes narrowed with agitation. There were parts of that statement she could argue with and parts that she couldn't. She was sworn to something bigger than herself, and she wasn't going to shirk on her duty to the Daybreakers. "I'm not staying for the witch," she reminded Galen sullenly.

"I know," he said conciliatorily, but he couldn't completely suppress the slight smirk hovering around the corners of his mouth.

"And no more werewolves."

"Absolutely," he agreed. "We'll manage fine without them."

The frown faded off her face to reveal a slightly perplexed turn to her lips. Keller loosened her death grip on Galen and slid her fingers through his, before beginning to thread her way back to Silas. "You shouldn't always be right," she grumbled to no one in particular.

"I'm not," he protested faintly. "You would have come to the same conclusion yourself eventually—we may just have been in Baton Rouge by that time, is all."

Sometimes his naïve faith in her infinite goodness petrified her. She was just one person, just as liable to make mistakes as the next, though hers often had more catastrophic results than average. It was difficult enough to know that all his fragile hopes were resting on her without wrestling, as she had the past few days, with the hopes of all his shapeshifter people weighing on her too. Galen was so simple, but he made her life so complicated.

She didn't voice any of her concerns, though, just shook her head and said, "Let's go tell Silas the werewolves are a bust, shall we? I'll bet Alma will be pleased with the outcome, that old witch."

°°°

Dillion could hardly see through the blackness crowding his vision. He leaned heavily on the door, back pressed to the solid strength of the wood for support, as he tried to gain some control over the unsteady rhythm of his breathing.

_They had come to his door._ He had left them an unmistakable warning, and they had still come to his home, come so close to her. Rage and terror struggled equally in his murky brain. Who were they that they would ignore so blatant a sign? Were they that powerful? Had he really driven them off this time?

The wolf inside him howled in protest. They had entered his territory. They had challenged his dominance. They had threatened his pack, his mate. The primal part of his persona was drowning his attempts at rational thought.

He should get out, he knew. Go for a run, shed this skin and let the wolf chase its frustrations through the underbrush. But he couldn't leave her, not when they were so close, not when there was danger on every side. He had to get a hold of himself.

A shudder threw him against the door with dreadful force. Blinding anger funneled him with reckless speed into the change, and his piercing fear prevented him from putting on the brakes. He barely managed to shove his favorite shirt over his head before his fingers turned to claws. Body bent, limbs twisting, sinews snapping and tightening, he surrendered himself to the wolf.


	6. What's happening?

**Werewolf**, n. A wolf that was once, or is sometimes, a man. All werewolves are of an evil disposition, having assumed a bestial form to gratify a bestial appetite, but some, transformed by sorcery, are as humane and is consistent with an acquired taste for human flesh.

–Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

**chapter six**

There was a wolf in the living room.

Dillion had gone to answer the front door some minutes before, and when he didn't return the occupants of the kitchen had simply assumed he was still engaged with the visitors. For Rory's sake, Casey struck up a conversation with her about the diner, and the two O'Connells bombarded her with questions, having never actually been inside the restaurant themselves. Put at ease by their efforts, the witch let Dillion and a whole host of other troubles nagging at her consciousness slip away.

But now there was the unmistakable _click_ of nails on the hardwood floor. All three heads at the table turned, peach pie recipes forgotten.

Casey cast a wild glance at her younger brother, dark blue eyes gone wide. "Go get Papa. Now."

"But—" Ulf barely managed to open his mouth in protest before Casey cut through his reasoning.

"No," she barked the command with no space for patience. "Go, Ulf."

As Ulf scampered up the back staircase, Casey rose from her seat and laid a hand lightly on Rory's shoulder. Aurora sent her a questioning look, and the werewolf offered a comforting squeeze as well as a shake of her head. "Everything's fine. Just—just stay here, okay? It's a family matter." And then she padded into the living room at a restrained run.

Rory stared bewildered at the space that Casey had occupied. Her heart was pounding oddly. Something was wrong, so terribly wrong. She _felt_ it, in a deep-down, gut-wrenching way. She knew in that steady, inflexible manner of hers that the situation was about to take a turn for the worse. A thought which was only reinforced when Ulf came bounding back down the stairs, a blank-faced and unreadable Liam stuck fast on his heels, and neither of them bothered to say a word to her.

She stood without thinking as they disappeared through the opening between the kitchen and the living room, the backs of her knees banging clumsily against the seat of her chair in a way that would surely leave bruises. The chair toppled to the tile floor, but she never heard it. Her whole world was strangely muffled and weirdly dim, like someone had thrown a blanket over her head. She circled the table by degrees, hands clutching at its edge to keep her legs steady, until it brought her near to the wall and to the doorway.

Liam's voice came to her from a long way off as he spoke in the next room—not the words but his tone: soft, soothing, commanding. Just the sound of it calmed her, opening space for rational thought—and that's when the true terror hit. She remembered with a stab of alarm that she didn't know where Dillion was.

_Was Dillion in trouble?_

She known him for less than a day, but suddenly that mattered very much. It mattered more than Casey's warning or her own sense of dread. It mattered so much that Rory bravely stuck her head around the doorframe to get a proper look at the situation. On the other side Ulf, Liam, and Casey stood like the three points of a triangle, and between their restraining presences paced a black wolf that rippled silver under the lights. _Dillion_.

Something almost tangible tugged at her heart. She had believed that thread between them had snapped earlier that morning when she'd dropped the guitar, but it seemed to have been waiting for exactly this moment to make it reappearance. Along that connection she could actually feel his rage, great and blinding. And deeper than that, fear and pain. The line tying them together drew tight, enticing her a step closer. She could almost hear his jumbled thoughts, feel them running with certainty across the surface of her own mind: He was scared for her. He had been looking for her. But they wouldn't let him leave this room, wouldn't let him be near her, and his frustration was making it harder to control the wolf's actions. _He needed her, he needed her help._

"Dillion," she whispered without meaning to.

Casey, who was standing closest with her back to the kitchen, swiveled her head around at the sound. "Rory!" she snapped, then froze as if expecting lightning from heaven to strike her. The wolf turned its ears toward the sound and began to pace in the redhead's direction, a growl rumbling in the depths of his chest.

"Rory," Casey attempted again, far more softly. "Please, go back in the kitchen."

But Aurora was staring at her soulmate in his second form. Her awareness was swamped with unrestrained waves of his agony and confusion—but also there was his relief upon seeing her, a relaxing of that tension that was tearing apart his restraint. She couldn't leave him now. "What's wrong?" she asked breathlessly as she tried to piece together the chaos of information flooding her senses. "What's happening?"

Casey scooted a few wary steps in the other girl's direction, never removing her eyes from her brother. "We're not exactly sure. Something must have really upset him for it to have gotten this bad. He's more wolf than human right now. He's not thinking clearly, and it won't get any better until he has time to calm down."

"I can help with that," Rory offered softly, but unexpectedly resolute.

Casey shot her a puzzled look in response to her suggestion, but the werewolf's attention was too divided to venture an answer. Dillion had never veered from his steady course as he approached the two young women, and the less distance there was between them the more alarmed she became. Casey set one commanding foot forward and spread her arms to make herself appear larger. "Go!" she demanded, flapping her hands. "Get! You idiot!"

"Be gentle," Liam warned too late.

Dillion lost his patience with his sister. She was standing in the path between him and Rory, and that thought was driving him crazy. Being incapable of speech, he settled a little irrationally on slightly more drastic measures to convince her to move. The wolf feigned a warning snap of its powerful jaws in the sixteen-year-old's direction, one which was never meant to make contact. He only meant to startle her some, and the other werewolf was fully aware of that fact having been on the receiving end of many such cautionary displays. He completely expected only to sink his teeth into a swath of the air, but the universe had other intentions.

The rapidity of the action precluded any thought, and that was Rory's undoing. When allowed time to reflect, when she stared into danger's face as it came barreling towards her, she would always choose to back down. But without the luxury of deliberation, she acted reflexively.

Rory threw herself into Casey's side to knock her out of striking range, not knowing the lunge was meant to be harmless. The movement placed the witch directly in intersection with the path of Dillion's momentum. Too late to completely pull up, the wolf's teeth scraped along her forearm as he frantically strained to divert the course of his attack.

Casey fell. So did the wolf, upending on its side from the force of its effort. Rory stumbled back against the wall, arm instinctively cradled to her chest. It tingled oddly, and she peeled it away from her shirt to examine it. Dillion's teeth had broken the skin in a shallow cut, and blood was beginning to bead up through the thin opening. "It's not bad," she murmured, but her voice sounded peculiar to her ears. Or maybe it was just the deathly quiet of the room her words had fallen into. Baffled by the silence, she looked up into several immobile faces.

The clouds in Dillion's pale eyes had been swept away by his impact, and he was now staring at her in a way that drove a chilly knife into her gut. His muzzle began to recede, his paws lengthening into fingers, his ears rounding. Rory's head was mysteriously fuzzy, like someone had stuffed cotton between her ears; she blinked a few times and abruptly there was a naked teenager on the floor.

"Aurora." Liam. She glanced in his direction, and the world tottered on end. There was something laced into his voice, into his eyes that she had never expected. Terror. Cool, composed, unmovable Liam was afraid. _Of what?_ "Stay very still."

Her legs were trembling too much to obey. The bleeding was getting worse, much worse than the superficial injury warranted, streaming over her arm. A drop of blood plummeted to the floor. Rory tumbled after it, falling, plunging into the black hole that had unexpectedly sprung up beneath her feet.

°°°

There is a reason that werewolves only hunt to kill. And there was a reason Dillion had just inadvertently broken half a dozen laws.

Unlike shapeshifter wolves, being a werewolf is not genetic—it is a disease, passed from mother to child through the placenta. Or by a bite, the entry of a werewolf's saliva into the victim's bloodstream.

Unlike becoming a vampire, lycanthropy does not stop the victim's vital functions. The new werewolf lives through every agonizing moment of the transformation. That is—_if_ he lives. As difficult as it is to endure the transition into becoming a vampire, that many fewer survive a werewolf's bite.

°°°

Time fractured. Hours and minutes and seconds played out in a brilliant array of splintered moments, sights and sounds and smells, all tinged with a hazily sharp sheen of crimson. Red like blood. But mostly, there was blackness, blessed blackness, a dark space where nothing entered and nothing left. A place to disappear, to rest, to forget the anguish decimating her physical form.

Liam's voice came to her first. "…The first day is the most critical. If she survives this, everything else will only hurt."

"But she will live, won't she, Papa?" Dillion. Her heart, her downfall.

"Yes. She's…perfect." Strange that he sounded almost awed. "Her own natural abilities are speeding the recovery process. A full-blooded witch would have fought the infection off entirely after a few days, but with her ancestry…she's _facilitating_ the change."

She strained her ears, tried to flutter the leaden weight of her eyelids, desperate to hear more, but the effort sent the world into a tailspin. She floated in the empty void for a seeming eternity before finally resurfacing like a drowning swimmer gasping for air.

Ulf was next. She caught his scent before she heard his voice. It was thick, strong, cloying. Nothing her in life had ever smelled like that. "Dillion." His tone was muffled like it was echoing from another room, or maybe like he had been crying. "You can't—"

"I am. Papa's right. If I were the first thing she saw…I have to go."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Maybe…maybe a long time, Ulf."

"We're a family—_pack_. We can't do this without you."

"You will. _You_ are going to take good care of her, Ulf. You're going to protect her."

"I can't—"

"You are going to take good care of her."

She couldn't stay long. The abyss was jealous, hungry, swallowing her up in its shadowy jaws.

"She's been calling your name." Soft, feminine. It fell gently on her abnormally sensitive ears.

"She's been saying a lot of things. She's delirious. There's a lot of pain."

"But you come running every time she calls, just like a good puppy."

"This is the last time. Everything's ready. I should be gone in a few minutes."

Silence engulfed her so long that she thought the darkness had come back to liberate her from the unbearable prison of her body. Then his voice rose up again, assuring her that she had never left.

"Casey?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not the one who needs your apology."

Dark tendrils reached for her, and she reached back, letting herself sink into them. But his words followed her, spoken to no one but her.

"_I'm sorry."_

°°°

It was nearly midnight and the entire street was dark, but in the window of the tiny diner was a neon orange sign that boisterously declared it to be open. The door swung inwards with only the slightest whine of warning. Alma Dustin looked up expectantly at the ribbon of night that had just entered her restaurant.

The teenager on the threshold swept his blue eyes over her face. They had never met, but they knew each other on sight. "I didn't expect—" he fumbled. "I mean, I didn't know where else to go."

"You did the right thing." Her rough, crackling voice was uncommonly tender. "Come in. Sit down." She gestured, ushering him into the artificial light illuminating the room. "I've made you some tea. It will calm your nerves."

His feet obeyed without his mind interfering. It never occurred to him to ask how Alma had known he was coming. There were simply some things that everyone should know better than to ask a witch unless they were prepared for the answer. He set the guitar strapped to his back against the edge of the table and dropped an old duffel bag beside it before he pulled out the chair across from the old woman, settling his long frame into it and leaning forward to wrap his hands around the mug being offered to him. He took a deep sip, then another, as if endeavoring to find the rights words at the bottom of the cup.

Alma scrutinized him all the while with her bright eyes, and before he could wrap his tongue around a rational sentence, she announced, "Well, you're not so bad."

He sputtered, choking on a mouthful of liquid, and blinked incredulously at her. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she admonished defensively. "I was mistaken about your kind and you in particular—an old woman has her prejudices. But this past day has brought about so many changes…" Her sharp eyes focused inwardly for a moment, and she shook her head to clear them. "I don't know what I was expecting of you—certainly not someone so young." She smiled crookedly at him, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. "And handsome too. Yes, you'll do just fine."

A few short hours from morning and suddenly his whole world had gone mad. "I'm afraid I don't understand," he drawled as slowly and patiently as he could manage.

"Now's no time for that," she evaded him cryptically again and caught him with a sideways glance. "Do you love her?" she asked abruptly.

His grasp on this conversation was loosening by the moment. "I—you—but…"

"No buts," she insisted. "The simple answer is yes or no."

"Yes," he said, but a whole world of emotion rattled in that single syllable.

"Excellent," Alma accepted all this as completely natural. "Then stop looking so worried. All will end as it should."

He gazed, transfixed, into that old face with its even older, wiser eyes that saw straight through him into things she should never have known. He suddenly felt like he was three years old again, and when he spoke his voice was equally as young and unsure, "I didn't mean to."

"Of course, but that hardly matters now. What's done is done. We have to move on from there."

"She's going to live," he frantically clung to the conviction, offered it to older woman for comfort.

A hint of a smile curved Alma's lips, lending to her air of mystery. "Did you think I didn't know that, child?"

"I—" he stumbled. He was completely out of his depth here, and he found himself at an overwhelming loss for words. "Are you sure?" he asked at last because he had never really believed himself.

"You shouldn't question things that are out of your hands, boyo. You have played your part well. It is time for you to go to bed, get some rest. Everything else will fall into place without us."

She stood slowly and creakily, her old body betraying her nimble mind. He quickly followed suit, bounding to her side so he could take hold of her elbow. "Bed?" he parroted, looking numbly down into her indigo eyes.

"That's a nice boy," she murmured as she accepted the support of his arm. "Yes, bed. Or as close to it as I can offer you. I'm afraid I have a sudden infestation of teenagers, and the only comfortable surface I have left is the couch."

Incapable of a coherent thought, he grabbed his luggage with his free hand and wordlessly escorted her to the door and outside to the exterior staircase leading up to her apartment. At the top of the stairs she paused, shuffling with her keys. It was only there that it struck him to put a voice to the one thing that tramped endlessly across his mind: "I'm sorry."

Her eyes darted to his face, startled for the first time. "Why would you say that, child? Indeed, you may have just saved the world."

°°°

Aurora opened her eyes, blinked sluggishly. Then memory landed square in her chest: the bite, the look on Liam's face, and the blackness that had devoured her. Panic swamped her misty mind, and she promptly fell out of bed. She lay on the dreadfully solid wooden floor for a long moment, moaning incomprehensively.

Everything _hurt_.

Her stomach heaved in protest, inspiring her to life again. She attempted to wobble to her feet, but she had an awful time finding them, as if her center of gravity had shifted. Failing that, she drug herself on her hands and knees into the adjoining bathroom. She pressed her cheek into the icy cool tile, hoping for the sensation to jolt her limp brain back into motion, while she turned her attention inward. Desperately, she reached for that small ball of witchfire that existed at her core, the little spring of energy that had hitherto always served as her grounding force in the world.

She reached for it…and found nothing.

Or not exactly nothing. In place of that symbol that had always marked her, however indistinctly, as a witch was something entirely else. In her mind's eye it appeared like an orb of coal, and as she focused on it seemed to glow red like it were being heated in a fire. She touched it, and the world exploded in misery.

Hair sprung up from every pore. Her limbs lengthened and contracted simultaneously, wrenching her in countless different directions. She felt like a rag doll in the hands of a giant child who was persistently and skillfully attempting to turn her inside out in order to expose her entrails to the world. Her body rebelled, writhing rhythmically across the floor, as she screamed in mindless terror. She screamed, screamed until her throat closed over, screamed until her screams became howls.

Four legs scrambled on the slick surface, claws trying to find purchase. Those legs were covered in mottled blond fur, and so was the body they were attached to. Rory yelped in surprise when this registered, and the body attempted to leap to its feet and make an escape from this strange reality. But its muscles, so new and untrained, betrayed her and she collapsed back into a motionless heap of ears and paws and tail and teeth. Stunned, Rory let go.

And so did the giant force that was toying with her. Everything receded, falling back into her human form with a sickening lurch, leaving her naked and exhausted next to the tattered rags of her clothes. Barely conscious, she only had enough presence of mind to haul herself up to the level of the toilet before she was suddenly and violently ill, and when she had rejected all the contents of her stomach, she allowed her head to fall insensibly onto the porcelain seat.

A blanket dropped around her. A pair of hands lifted her shoulders, gently scooting her back from the toilet bowl. While one held her steady, the other hand appeared briefly in front of her eyes, gingerly pushing back the hair that had fallen over her face.

"Dillion?" she whispered huskily.

"No," Ulf answered quietly but firmly—and maybe a little sorrowfully. "He's not here. I'm sorry."

"Ulf," the words tore at her raw, aching throat, "what's happening to me?"

The redhead wrapped his arms around her, burying her in the broad expanse of his unyielding chest. "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay. It gets easier, I promise—the change does. It only hurts because you're fighting it."

Frustration and confusion were a complicated mix, too complicated for her fever-fogged brain to sort through. "How can I stop if I don't know what I'm fighting?"

His hand stroked her hair, calmly, peacefully. She could sense his concern, and it was beginning to settle the waves of chaos inside her. "You're going to love it. You'll see, Rory," he soothed as if he hadn't heard her question. Maybe she'd only thought she had spoken aloud. "You're going to love being a wolf."

°°°

Keller opened her eyes and sat up in one seamless motion. The lump of flesh curled in the other bed made a wordless, sleepy protest against the disruption.

"Galen?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Do you know what a synonym for dusk is?"

"Keller," the shapeshifter's heir had stirred enough to recover his powers of speech. "I'm most of the way asleep. My brain is _sludge_."

"Twilight, Galen. _Twilight_."

Two green eyes popped open in the semi-darkness. "As in…" he breathed but couldn't seem to put the enormity of this discovery into words.

She nodded decisively. "Yes. '_One from the twilight to be one with the dark._'"

"Aurora Dusk-Keeper." He sat up, now entirely awake, and ran a hand through his ruffled golden hair. "That certainly explains a lot. The Council, especially. But…" His brow furrowed. "What about the second half, the part about being one with the dark—what does that mean?"

Keller opened her mouth and swiftly shut it again. What _did_ it mean The dark. What was another synonym for dark? Night. But even the night wasn't entirely dark because there were stars when you weren't in the city, and there was the moon except for when the dark side was facing the earth—_The moon_. Her heart thudded against her breastbone. _Oh Goddess_.

"The werewolf," the sometime-panther hissed. "I'm going to kill him."


End file.
